


Uncharted Continents

by seekwill



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Human, Downton Abbey inspired, F/F, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Upstairs Downstairs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill
Summary: When Robert Device, the Earl of Tadfield, dies without producing a son to inherit his title, his mother, Agnes Device (nee Nutter), and his daughter, Anathema, discover the next in line is nervous London-based bachelor and distant cousin, Aziraphale Device. In coming to Tadfield Manor to confront the realities of his new life, Aziraphale is immediately drawn to wry and aloof chauffeur, Crowley. As a new era begins, those living both upstairs and downstairs in the fine and storied country house plot a new way forward.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Sarah Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 226
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed into shape by the irreplaceable Mussimm, who graciously lets me whine about the projects I give myself to her on a daily basis.

_ Late April, 1913 _

Crowley smoked, and he waited. 

The train was late. He’d been early, not wanting to miss the new Earl, not wanting to make him wait a moment. Anthony Crowley wasn’t about to lose his job. He had to make a good first impression on His Lordship.

He nodded to the other driver, who also smoked, and waited.

“Who are you waiting for?” The other driver asked. This was a small village, and everyone, especially in service, traded on gossip. 

“Prince of Wales,” snipped Crowley, enjoying the way the other man’s eyes widened into saucers.

“Really?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No.” He returned his attention to his cigarette as the other driver scoffed.

Robert Device hadn’t been a bad man. Nor had he been a particularly good man. But he’d been a decent employer and Crowley was shocked when he and the rest of the staff had received news of his untimely death. Angor of the chest or something. One day he drops off His Lordship at the station, and the next, a man of 56 years who appeared entirely healthy drops dead in a parlour room in Mayfair. Grim stuff.

Device hadn’t left any sons, had never remarried after the death of his wife so many years earlier. There had been rumours of illegitimate children, but there always were with these sorts of things, with these types of people. Officially, there was no direct male heir, and the family had cast a wide net looking for the next in line to the title.

The man they had found, a distant relation, was due to arrive some twenty minutes ago.

The sound of a train could be heard approaching the station as he finished his cigarette. Crowley stubbed the butt out and stood up straight, folding his hands behind his back. He reminded himself how few drivers were available for hire, how he had a valuable and rare skill. 

The train was at the platform now. The steam of the engine rose above the waiting area.

He would hold his tongue. He would smile and be deferential.

Men and their families exited the station. Crowley leaned forward, peered into the small crowd. He had no idea who he was looking for. Robert Device’s mother had never met the bloke, didn’t know what he looked like. She’d simply told Crowley to identify the man using a process of elimination. 

“Just wait and see whomever is left and bring them here. Hopefully you’ll have the right man and not some charlatan.”

Weary travellers bundled into waiting cars, or walked away from the station. Crowley wondered if this man would be dark and tall like the rest of the Device’s were. The elder Lady Tadfield, Agnes Device-Nutter, the former Earl’s mother, stood nearly six feet, and age had not greyed her hair nor stooped her shoulders. Lady Anathema, her granddaughter, had olive skin and black hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She did not stand as tall as her grandmother, but it almost seemed as she did, with her chin held high and serious expression on her face. In the months since Lord Tadfield’s death, they had seemed like reapers, sweeping around the grounds in black lace dresses, the mourning period still very much in full swing. 

The months following the funeral had been bleak, with the uncertainty of the title dangling over their heads. But now that they’d found an heir, perhaps things would turn around.

As the small crowd dwindled to nothing, Crowley saw him.

A brown jacket was slung over his arm and he held a derby hat in a matching shade. In his other hand, he carried a single suitcase. There was nothing dark, or tall, or mournful about him. Crowley would’ve never described himself as a man of religion, but the man at the station could have passed for an angel, with the springtime sun beating down on him, and his lightcoloured clothes, and the shockingly blond hair. Anxiety was writ large on his face. 

Crowley waited a moment to see if anyone else would emerge from the station behind the maybe-angel. Someone made of more solid stuff. Robert Device had not been a brilliant man, or an exceptionally kind one, or the particularly authoritative type either, but he had looked the part of an Earl. This man at the station looked hopelessly lost. But then, Crowley thought, perhaps he was.

Crowley took a few steps forward on long, lean legs, and cleared his throat. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man startled, pressed his hat to his chest,and flushed from nervousness. Oh, he was a soft one.

“Er, I…” The man sputtered, eyes wide at Crowley. He bit his lower lip and worried it with his teeth. Then, he smiled. 

The smile was a quiet thing, unsure of itself and of the person on the receiving end. Crowley found himself wishing, very suddenly, and in the most private place in his heart that this was not the new Earl of Tadfield. That this was just a man living in the village who Crowley would pass by from time to time, or see in the pub. That this man would not be, of all things, his employer. It was a ridiculous wish, and he tamped it down hard into the pit of his stomach. Behind his back, his fingers knit together so hard the blood drained from around his knuckles.

“I wonder,” said the man, “if you might tell me the direction of the Tadfield estate, and if you happen to know, could you tell me how long it might take me to walk there.”

He was completely unprepared. To think he would arrive here with no one to fetch him. The poor man had no idea what he was in for.

“You must be Mr. Device,” Crowley said, moving towards the man now.

“Ah, yes. I am. I-” The man, Mr. Device, the new Earl of Tadfield by right of birth and name stuttered to a stop as Crowley reached out to take his suitcase.

“I’m here to take you to the estate, sir.” Crowley’s voice had transformed to the one he used with the former Earl. Deferential and saccharine. It tasted sour in his mouth. He made a point to only use it as little as possible, to keep his lips shut and to not debase himself any more than was strictly required. He looked up into the man’s face and was momentarily caught off guard by the striking blue of his uneasy eyes. This man was not of the same breed as the Devices back at the house at all.

“I’m the driver, sir. Your driver,” Crowley explained.

“Oh my, well, isn’t that… isn’t that just something.” The man still held tight to the handle of his worn leather case, and his eyes were glued to Crowley’s face.

“Let me take your bag, sir,” asked Crowley, and finally, the man let go. It was hard to think of the soft, lighter than air man as the Earl, as Lord Tadfield. But his nervous way inspired some unbidden ache in Crowley’s chest. He took a large step back and cleared his throat. He needed space. 

“That’s, ah, very kind of you, mister…?” 

“Crowley, sir. Just Crowley.”

“Crowley.”

The way he repeated it felt intimate, reverent. Crowley swallowed thickly, and though he knew he shouldn’t turn his back on the man, he also knew that he wouldn’t know any different, so Crowley returned to the car, opened the door to allow the man in.

Little steps. Everything about this man was a question. He slipped into the car slowly, as if he’d never been in one before, and Crowley closed the door behind him. He placed the single suitcase on the front passenger seat, and moved behind the wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the man tentatively settled in for the ride.

Pulling out of the station and starting down the road that would take them to the estate, Crowley kept glancing over his shoulder at the man in the back seat. His hands were folded in his lap cradling his hat, nervously pulling at one another as he watched the village pass by. Crowley felt something like sympathy for him, this man so far out of his depth, but not too much of course. Hard to feel bad for an Earl when he’d been living under foot of one for nearly his whole life. Life would be good for the man in the back seat. It would be more than good. 

In no time at all they had reached the edge of the village, and farmland spread out to either side of the road, copses of trees scattered on the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Do you like it here?” Said a nervous voice from the back seat.

Crowley startled. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Uh, hmm. S’nice village. I can’t say I know anything different.” Crowley had grown up here. His whole life was confined to the county. There was no point of comparison.

“Oh, good. But I meant more… working for the family. Did you like working for the Earl?”

This was significantly more dangerous territory. Crowley sat up straight, kept his eyes on the road. “He was a fine employer, sir. As I’m sure you will be.” A safe answer, he thought.

The man let out a mirthless chuckle. “Please, I just… it’s just that I… I never met the man. We’re cousins, somehow, share a great-great-something-or-other. I’m just trying to get a sense of who he was.”

Crowley cleared his throat, and said nothing. He knew nothing of Robert Device, besides how he’d acted in the back seat of the car, door to door. He paid Crowley a wage that, while not truly  _ fair _ , was on par what he could expect for a driver. He had never been cruel in Crowley’s estimation. “He was a fine employer,” Crowley repeated.

“I suppose there are worse things to be,” said the man.

“Yes, m’Lord,” said Crowley.  _ Lord _ . It was an effort not to grimace. Deference was the job, and it had been the job he’d had most of his earthly life, but he didn’t have to like it. At least he wasn’t in the big house. At least he didn’t have to dress them or clean up their mess. He just had to drive them from one place to the other, fix the car. It could be worse.

“Oh, Mr. Crowley. That’s not necessary,” came the anxious voice from the backseat.

“Just Crowley. And what’s not necessary?” Then he added, “Sir.”

“Er, ‘my Lord.’ It seems a bit much, don’t you think?”

Crowley thought for a moment that the man might be having him on, trying to catch him out, find some excuse to have him fired. But that didn’t seem his way. They had only been in each other’s acquaintance for fifteen minutes but Crowley didn’t get the impression that the man was the scheming type. 

Part of him wanted to pull over the car and turn around full in his seat to face him, try to get a better read, but he kept looking ahead. The great stone gates of the estate came into view. “I think you’ll find it a matter of course here. They’ll all be calling you that.”

“They?”

“The staff, at the house.”

There was a long pause, and Crowley could swear he heard a rather forlorn sigh.

“I don’t really have the vaguest notion of how this should go, do I?”

Crowley wasn’t sure if the man was asking rhetorically, but it was best not to leave a person without an answer. “I’m sure you’ll find your way soon enough, m’Lord.”

“Thank you,” came the whispered and unsure response. 

The house coming into view as they drove towards it cut off any further conversation. The Manor wasn’t the grandest home in England. It wasn’t even the grandest home in the county, but it was far and away nicer than anything most Britons would step foot in during their lifetime. Crowley went upstairs rarely, spending most of his time in the garage and the basement, but even he would grudgingly admit that it was impressive with the portraits and chandeliers and high ceilings. He’d certainly never go anywhere nicer. He wondered if the new Earl had grown up in a place like this, if he was familiar with the trappings of wealth and fineries. 

Though, it was not as if he’d ever have the chance or position to ask. Minding one’s own business came with the job.

He pulled up to the entrance and stopped the car. The man didn’t move from the back seat and so Crowley swung around and opened the door for him. In front of the house stood Lady Tadfield, her granddaughter Lady Anathema, and behind them the upstairs staff. The butler, the tall imposing figure of Morningstar, stood at the head of the line.

The man didn’t move from his seat, but his eyes drifted up to Crowley, wide and frightened. That pesky pang of sympathy came to roost in Crowley’s chest once more, and he shooed it away. He leaned forward just a little, knowing if he got any closer he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Morningstar. “You’ll be fine. No one bites.”

He smiled gratefully as Crowley leaned back, and finally made his way out of the car. Lady Tadfield moved first.

“Cousin Aziraphale, so pleased to finally meet you in person, after all that correspondence.”

Aziraphale. A name like a bell. 

Crowley handed the suitcase off to one of the footmen as the man, Aziraphale, was lead through the main doors, Agnes on his arm and Anathema on his tail.

So it began. Tadfield Manor had a new master.

* * *

Aziraphale heard the flurry of activity behind him as he entered the home, staff running this way and that. They had taken his coat and hat, his suitcase. To where, he’d have to find out later. It was disconcerting to know how invisible they had to make themselves for his perceived comfort, but that was the way these houses worked.

He had been to grand country homes like this before, but it had been years since the more carefree days of his youth. He had friends at Oxford with houses like these, run by servants and hosting visits by minor Royals. He’d visited as a young man and the experience had been novel. The effect was altogether different when one was walking into a place that was supposed to now belong to you.

It was one thing to be a guest. It was something else entirely to have a life you liked elsewhere and suddenly be told you were to be responsible for a house a four hour train ride away from the only home you knew. He had only been a visitor to this kind of life, and then could make all the mistakes and missteps afforded to tourists. Now that this was to be his, he was struck again and again by the stark realization that he simply did not know how to be a person with this title.

Lady Tadfield led him into the great hall and he peered up at the portraits on the wall, the high ceilings and skylights. It was grand, indeed. He wished he could feel excited, instead of scared out of his wits.

“Cousin, you must be exhausted from your journey. We’ll take tea in the library.”

Aziraphale’s ears perked up at the mention of a library. His hands twitched at the thought of what may lie in there. Books that had been in the hands of the family for decades, centuries probably. That was a pleasing prospect, a bright spot in this situation that was marred by a dreary anxiety.

When they reached the room that bright spot faltered. The library was deep red, lined with rich mahogany cabinets filled with antiques and heirlooms. The furniture was in the french revival style, and struck him as being wholly uncomfortable. For a room called the library, the selection of books was shockingly small. He tried to mask the disappointment on his face.

Lady Tadfield, Agnes, directed him to a loveseat and she took the armchair. Anathema, who from their first encounter looked as if she might be ill, made to take the settee when she was stopped by her grandmother’s voice.

“Anathema, what are you doing? Pour some tea for your cousin.”

“Oh, I’m entirely capable of pouring my own.” Aziraphale began to rise from his place but Agnes reached out her hand to stop him. He obeyed. He had been in her presence for less than five minutes and already he sensed that directions from Lady Tadfield were to be received and followed as much as one could.

“Nonsense,” said Agnes. She tilted her head towards her granddaughter, not taking her eyes from the man who settled back onto the cushion with obvious nerves. “Anathema?”

The girl’s face set into a stony glare as she approached and poured the tea. She added a single cube of sugar and milk to Aziraphale’s cup, and handed it off to him.

“Anathema,” her grandmother admonished, “You didn’t even ask Cousin Aziraphale how he takes his tea.”

“Oh, just like this, Cousin. Just like this,” he said. Anathema looked at Aziraphale, her eyes searching. He met her gaze evenly, and smiled as warmly as he could. He did not take his tea like this, but he would from her. She was young, and her entire life had undergone a seismic shift in such a short time. To lose one’s father, to be taken from the home you knew across the sea and brought to a new place and be told that this was your world now - well, he could sympathize on that last part.

She gave him a cordial nod, and poured a cup for her grandmother (just milk) and herself (just sugar), then took her seat.

For a moment, the library was silent, save the clinking of cups on saucers. Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak then realized he didn’t quite know what to say, and instead looked down into the cup balanced on his knee.

“So, Cousin, it’s so lovely to have you here finally, after all of that correspondence. Tell me, does this feel like home?” Agnes placed her cup down on the table to her right, folded her hands in her lap, and fixed a stare on Aziraphale.

They were diving right in. “Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Well…”

“Because this is your home now. You know that, yes?”

Aziraphale blinked nervously, eyes flicking over to Anathema, who stared at the cup in her hands. “Yes, I-”

“You are the Earl of Tadfield.”

“Is there not…” He trailed off, glancing around the room, slightly and abruptly overwhelmed. He placed his cup to the side and his hands did a sort of dance in front of him, fingers coming together and apart. He tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips before continuing. “Isn’t there some sort of ceremony, or papers to sign, or… something along those lines?”

Agnes was unmoved. “You became the Earl the moment my son, Anathema’s father, died. We have the papers, the letters patent. All there is for you to do it conclude your affairs in London and arrange for your things to be moved here. Personal effects only. As you can see we have furniture here. Though if you have an item or two of significant personal importance, you are of course welcome to bring them. Then we can-”

“Pardon me, Cousin. I’m terribly sorry to interrupt. It’s just that-” The courage he had gathered faltered, and the wind left his sails. He had an idea of how he wanted this meeting to go, and he had been blown far off course. “I have a life in London. And while I am honoured by this and do not take it lightly, I had thought that I’d do any business that needed to be done to run the estate from a distance.”

His final words petered out, and were just above a whisper.

Agnes set her lips. “You have a life in London?”

“Ah, yes. That’s right.” He wanted, desperately, to find a solution that might work for both of them. Surely this would. He knew of other Earls, even some Dukes who spent months at a time in London’s clubs and social scene. 

“Tell me, Aziraphale. Do you have a wife? Children?”

The question caught him off guard, and any optimism about this exchange he still had melted away to nothing. “No. I don’t.”

“Your parents?”

“No longer with us.” He thought that she probably knew the answers to these questions, but was simply making a point of it.

“So, no family then.”

He sighed, and smiled a sad sort of smile. “Confirmed bachelor, I’m afraid.”

“And what is it you do, to make a living in London?”

“I collect and restore antique texts.”

“Is that a lucrative career?” Agnes picked up her tea again. Took a sip. She was in her element now, all ease as she dissected him.

“Not particularly, but-”

“Then it is a hobby.”

He could argue the point but he suspected an interjection at this point would not be well received. He clenched his jaw, and tried to keep his shoulders from sagging. 

“Do you have any idea what it takes to run an estate of this size?”

“I don’t,” he answered honestly.

“Because I do. I have been doing it for the last six months. If I’m being honest I’ve been doing it for years, as my son has been gallivanting across the continent with the excuse he was looking for a wife so that he might produce an heir. Even when he was here in the village he was Lord in name but not in practice. I have been the Lord, Cousin, I have kept the ship afloat.”

Aziraphale kept her steely gaze. Yes, he had been unprepared for this, but he would not kowtow to her entirely. He would maintain some dignity by meeting her unflinching eye, even if his hands trembled all the while.

“You may have noticed that I am an old woman. In the years I have left I have no interest in bending over ledgers and visiting tenants, which is a position I hope you can appreciate. I do not wish them to be any of my concern. It is time for someone else to take on this role. As you are the Earl of Tadfield, well, common sense deems that it should be you.

“Aging tends to show us what is most important. I hope you’ll excuse me saying so. You’re not a young man, but you’re not an old man yet and so you might not have sorted this out. What is most important to me, Aziraphale, is that the work I have done to preserve the Device name,  _ our  _ name, and the reputation of this estate remain in the highest esteem. At the end, all you take with you is your name. Have you ever thought of that, Aziraphale?”

His soft mouth dropped open.

“The question was not rhetorical.”

“Oh, ah, no. No, I suppose I should say that I haven't thought of it in quite that way.” He stumbled over his words, searching for a more intelligent response and coming up short.

“Once things are settled, you may find that you can spend much of your time in London. If you manage things well, you could spend half the year there if you like. But until we reach such a time,” she brought the teacup to her lips, glared at him over the rim of it, “I suspect you will find it most convenient to move here on a full time basis. Our survival depends on your minding this estate like it is the most important thing in the world to you. Hopefully, eventually, it will be.” She finally broke the lock her eyes had on him, took a drink, and set the cup down.

Aziraphale was pink in the cheeks. His chest rose and fell. She had almost made it sound like it was a suggestion. Quietly, in his heart, he began to say goodbye to the life he had known.

“Do we understand one another?”

He exhaled and folded his hands together. For a breath, he looked over to Anathema, wanting some input from the girl, some sign of life. This was her home too, after all. But she remained silent.

“We do,” he said quietly. 

“Splendid. Anathema, will you ring for Morningstar? We’ve delayed lunch long enough. Cousin Aziraphale must be hungry from the train ride.” Agnes had dropped her earlier ferocity. Now she was all genteel courtesy befitting of a woman of her age.

They left the library for the dining room.

After some more uncomfortable conversation, and a stilted dinner where Agnes and the butler exchanged conspicuous glances at what Aziraphale suspected was his lack of an evening suit, they all retired to their respective rooms. 

He undid his waistcoat and laid it gingerly across the armchair at the edge of the room. The chair was covered with the most exquisite brocade with gold trimming and tassels. The whole room was luxurious, dark wood and rich fabrics. It was fit, down to the carpet pile, for an Earl.

As he undressed he thought about London. He had clients there, and friends. A club. He knew how to navigate the metropolis exactly how he was. He knew when to be known and when to be anonymous. He could blend in just as often as he needed to. 

There would be no anonymity or blending in here, between the grand portraits and bowed heads, the  _ yes, my Lord _ s and dressing for dinner.

He hosted an idle fantasy where he refused to come back. He would dig his heels in and clutch his fingers to the doorway of his shop, holding fast against the forces that would drag him here. But, as he was coming to learn, there were more people to consider besides himself.

There were the staff, twenty-something strong who relied on the steady running of the house for their employment and wages. There were tenants on the land, families that had been there just as long as the Devices had, who helped support the surrounding community, who needed proper care and attention. There was Agnes, who seemed the kind of woman unaccustomed to hearing no, whose greatest desire was to see her legacy flourish. 

Finally, there was Anathema, with her skeptical eyes and sad mouth. She didn’t like him, Aziraphale knew, nor was she required to. But Aziraphale felt responsibility for her most of all. No parents or brothers and sisters, a demanding grandmother. Only just back in the country and without, it seemed, many friends. Her life belonged to her several measures less than his belonged to him, and he wanted to make this as easy on her as possible. Somehow. 

As Earl, perhaps he would have sway to mold her life in a way that would make her happy, or something close to it. Perhaps he could be a father figure. A  _ godfather _ . The idea of it made him smile, especially as he had written off the idea of any children of his own so long ago.

He undid his cuffs and his bowtie, and started on the buttons at his throat. Morningstar had floated hiring a new valet, but Aziraphale had put that idea to bed for now. “I am very good at taking care of my own clothes, but I appreciate the thought.” Morningstar had looked unconvinced but had said nothing. Aziraphale expected he’d have a valet in time, but hoped he could put it off for a bit longer. This quiet moment undressing himself was the closest to peace he’d felt all day, and he wondered and suspected that it might be this way for awhile.

He meandered to the window and looked out over the estate. The village in the distance glowed softly , but the night was dark and revealed little. If he leaned forward, turned to the left, he could see outbuildings, a garage. The light was on.

The unmistakable silhouette of a tall, slim man stood starkly in the blackness. He leaned against the open garage door. Mr. Crowley. The first person he’d met in this life, the first and only to try to put him at ease. He felt a pang of fondness for him that was perhaps unwarranted, and likely unwanted by the object of it.

Crowley seemed a serious man. A professional. His job was to transport Aziraphale, not to soothe his nerves. Yet he had.  _ No one bites. _

The flare of a cigarette came into view, and even from this distance, Aziraphale could see Crowley bring it to his lips, the small light illuminating the lower half of his face. Crowley had thin fingers. Aziraphale had noticed them on the steering wheel.

His eyes fluttered closed as he continued to undo his shirt. His fingertips brushed his own skin and he imagined… He imagined.

When he reached the bottom of his sternum, he opened his eyes and let out a shallow gasp. Crowley was looking up at the illuminated window, at Aziraphale there. 

Aziraphale closed the curtain abruptly.

“You are the Earl of Tadfield,” he said quietly to himself, trying the words on for size, attempting to reassure himself with them. “Act like it.”

He finished undressing, and went to bed.

* * *

Anathema sat at her vanity as a housemaid took down her hair and brushed it out for her. It had been a long, hard day. She had not known what to expect of her distant cousin, and it certainly could’ve been worse. Aziraphale could’ve been a financier who would put the estate on the line for some newfangled investment. He could’ve been one of those aristocrats who turned up his nose at Anathema’s American accent and olive skin that revealed her mother’s Spanish ancestry. Or he could’ve simply been unkind. He wasn’t any of those things, but he was weak. 

His resolve in front of her grandmother had wilted like a flower left out of water. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for it. Her mother’s parents had sent her back to England on Agnes’s first command. She was not a woman to be argued with. 

There were moments during his interrogation where she almost felt bad for him. She didn’t though. It was hard to feel bad for someone who had just inherited a title and would be well looked after the rest of his life simply by virtue of being born a man. And the estate…

This had been her home once upon a time. As a girl, she’d lain down in the centre of the great hall, surrounded by paintings of ancestors and war heroes and bucolic landscapes and looked up, enjoying the change of perspective. She’d imagine walking on the ceiling, being out of reach from the grown-ups below, until a member of staff would sweep along and encourage her back to standing.

A disappointed _ look what you’ve done to your dress _ had been the most frequent phrase spoken to her in her youth. It even made recent appearances, like when she’d been caught out in the rain on her walk, or when she insisted on cleaning up after the horses herself.

It was so easy to get lost in nostalgia here. She’d never really been happy at Tadfield Manor, not like in America, but it was familiar. And for someone unfamiliar to now be in charge of the familiar? It rankled.

What now, did this mean for her? Something leaden grew between her lungs. She wanted to throw herself on the bed, twist her hands in her nightclothes and call out like a wretch into the night. Nothing about the future she had been handed appealed. She did not want to marry some Duke or Marquess, give him little Lords and Ladies, throw vapid dinner parties for vapid people. But she couldn’t see any other options. She didn’t know what any other future looked like.

“Louisa, you’ll excuse us.”

Anathema and the maid turned to see Lady Tadfield at the door in her dressing gown, hair carefully brushed and cascading over her shoulder. Even in her 70s, Agnes was striking. A handsome woman, some might say, with features that wouldn’t have been called delicate, but distinctive. With her stature and demeanor, it was a pity women couldn’t be Prime Minister. Foreign leaders would be cower in the wake of Agnes Device.

“Yes m’Lady,” said Louisa with a curtsy. She turned to Anathema. “Would you like me to wait outside?”

“No, Louisa, that’ll be all for tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Louisa scurried out. If she’d had a tail, it would have been tucked between her legs. A nice girl, Anathema thought, but not suited for the work of a lady’s maid. She was too shy, too easily intimidated. Anathema didn’t want a lady’s maid, but if she had to have one she’d prefer someone who wasn’t scared of her, someone with a little more gumption.

She turned back to the mirror, watched the low lamplight flicker across her grandmother’s face. Agnes sat on Anathema’s bed, patted the space beside her in invitation. Anathema stayed where she was, practicing the only resistance she knew of.

“That’s fine. You stay there,” said her grandmother, smiling. “I know today wasn’t easy for you, my dove, to watch a stranger take your father’s place.”

Her father. A man she had barely seen for years but loved all the same. He wrote her often in his final years, spinning tales, including small and unskilled sketches of the scenes he encountered. She’d never get a letter from him again.

“I have a plan though, you must know that.”

Agnes always had a plan. She was always five, ten steps, an entire mile ahead of everyone else.

“I do not intend this estate, our legacy be left to a book collector. You will be the real benefactor here.”

Anathema huffed a sarcastic little laugh. “Are you going to go to Parliament and change the laws, Granny? Join the suffragettes?” It was a jest but the suffragettes would’ve done well with Agnes on their side.

Agnes threw her head back and laughed. Then she locked eyes with Anathema in the mirror. “You are funny, Anathema, very clever. I’m amazed you haven’t thought of it yourself.”

And while Anathema did not know what Agnes was going to say yet, an invisible icy hand wrapped itself around her throat. “Thought of what?”

Agnes’s eyes were steel in the reflection. “You’ll marry him.”

Anathema spun around on her stool, eyes wide and mouth open. “I won’t!”

Agnes shushed, beckoned Anathema to her but her granddaughter did not move. “You’ll see, my dove.”

“He is… he’s old!” Anathema stood. She was shaking. This was madness.

“Oh, Anathema. He’s barely forty. Did you know that your grandfather was thirty years older than I was?”

“That was then, Granny! Things are different now.”

“Not that different.”

Anathema paced, seething. “I won’t.”

“If your goal, Anathema, is to remain as independent as possible, then I think you will find Aziraphale an excellent match. We’ve not known him long but if my instincts regarding his nature are correct I suspect he’d let you live exactly the kind of life you want, as long as you allow him to live his. And you’d be Lady Tadfield. The estate would be yours, as it should be.”

“What if,” Anathema pleaded, “he doesn't want to marry  _ me _ ?”

Agnes laughed again, a smaller chuckle that barely left her mouth. “I daresay he won’t. It’ll take time. But he will come around. He cares about appearances, your cousin. Of that I’m certain.”

Anathema collapsed into a chair and her grandmother sighed. 

“My dear, you are being terribly dramatic. We are not holding the wedding tomorrow. You will have time. Have your fun. But not too much.” She paused,  _ for effect  _ Anathema thought. She wasn’t the only one who could be dramatic.

“I’m terribly exhausted from the day behind us. I should go to bed, and leave you to calm down.”

Tears came to Anathema’s eyes. “I won’t marry him. I won’t.”

Agnes stood at the door. “You’ll see, Anathema. Women - we must make do with our lot, and not turn down opportunities when they present themselves to us. Good night, my dove. Sleep well.”

Anathema buried her face in her arms.

Even amongst these fine things, this life of promise, she was merely a pawn. She was a gilded girl, and she was in control of nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley watched as the curtains were drawn in the Earl’s room in the big house. “Good night, Your Lordship,” he muttered to himself as Aziraphale disappeared from view, to go to sleep in a room Crowley had never laid eyes on,  _ would _ never lay eyes on. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out. 

It wasn’t that he was bitter. He didn’t imagine himself in that life and he didn’t want it. There was no fantasy he played through where he was a titled man, swanning through the parlour rooms of the well-to-do and monied, debutantes on his arm. He saw what that life looked like. Three costume changes a day and endless social calls and having every little move you made dictated by some unspoken social more. He didn’t envy it. 

That wasn’t to say he saw any particular freedom in the life he lead either. As much as the car felt like his, it wasn’t. As much as his room above the garage felt like his, he knew it could be taken away at a moment’s notice. It he put one foot wrong the rug could be pulled out from under him. In fact, he didn’t even need to do anything wrong. The new Earl could decide he didn’t quite like Crowley’s face and he could be out on the street without a reference or a pound to his name.

Not that he would, though, thought Crowley, eyes darting up to the darkened window once more. The Earl, Aziraphale, didn’t seem to be either petty or bold. Bit naive, maybe. Very naive, attempting to have some sort of chat with Crowley in the car. Crowley found it charming.

He huffed a sarcastic little laugh at himself. He knew nothing of Aziraphale’s true character. The new Earl was to find himself a very rich man and when he realized that, there’d be no more nervous chatter from the back seat. He’d grow into the title, and grow out of those habits unbecoming of a man of his status. 

Crowley switched off the single light in the garage, and climbed the stairs to the loft, single candle in hand. The ceiling was low and the room spartan. A bed, a trunk for his clothes, a three-legged stool, and a small shelf. It wasn’t much, and it was biting cold in the wintertime, but he’d rather it than the house. He preferred the peace and quiet.

After dropping Aziraphale off at the front door that morning, Crowley had parked the car, and headed to the kitchen to catch lunch. From the moment he walked over the threshold, the maids were on him.

“What’s he like?”

“Did he seem very kind?”

“Was he handsome?”

“Can’t a man get a cuppa without being subjected to an inquisition?” he barked.

He shook them off and took his place at the long wooden table, well aware of their eyes burning holes into him. The morning newspaper was abandoned there and he pulled it over and snapped the pages open, relishing the increasing apoplexia the girls were descending into.

“Don’t you ladies have a floor to scrub or something?” he said over his shoulder. 

Their chattering indignation took on a new frenzy. “Crowley! You’re awful!” one of them yelled. Crowley wouldn’t tease them so much if they didn’t make it so easy. 

The fussing abruptly stopped when Dagon, the cook, swept into the servant’s dining hall. She swung her head around, searching. “Her Ladyship wants lunch. Where’re the boys? They need to be bringing food up any second.”

While she’d tried to conceal it, Crowley knew Dagon had been fretting for days, writing and rewriting menus, going back and forth to the market. She was worried the Earl wouldn’t like her food, that he’d send her away. She mentioned that it had happened to her before. He’d heard her hollering at the kitchen maids that morning, making them re-do dishes again and again.

“Did he say anything to you,” she asked Crowley, once the maids had left to find the footmen, “‘bout anything he doesn’t like to eat? Don’t want to serve a potato soup on his first day if he doesn’t like potatoes.”

Crowley had opened his mouth to ask who in their right mind didn’t like potatoes, when Morningstar appeared in the doorway behind the cook.

“I’ve just seen him. I’d wager that being a picky eater is not one of His Lordship’s personal downfalls,” said the butler, sniffing.

Crowley made an involuntary noise of protest and Morningstar had raised his haughty eyebrows in the driver’s direction. 

“Do you disagree?”

Crowley swallowed a retort. It wouldn’t do Crowley any good to launch into the defence of the man down here, especially not to Morningstar, whose loyalty to Lady Tadfield was unflinching. He wasn’t wrong, that is, to say Aziraphale was a bit soft around the middle, broad chested. It’s just that it suited him. However, he wasn’t going to be caught saying that in front of Morningstar. “Just something caught in my throat,” Crowley muttered.

“Quite. Did he say anything on the ride over that I should be informed of?”

Crowley stared at the newspaper. “No.”

“Nothing about staffing? Plans he had?”

“No.”

“If he does, you’ll tell me.”

“Sure, sure.” 

Crowley had watched him go. It was a shame, he thought, that Morningstar hadn’t been born into an aristocratic family. All that pompous condescension would have found an excellent home in the halls of Buckingham Palace. It was absolutely wasted on the commoners here in the downstairs.

When the family had been served their lunch, the servants had theirs, crammed around the wooden table. Vegetable soup and fresh bread and just a little fish. The conversation was of course on the arrival of the new Earl. The girls were disappointed that he was older, that he had a “paunch.”

“What?” said Hastur, the gardener, nails still black with dirt as he leaned over his bowl. “You think one of you was bound for some great romance or summat? Be Lady of the House?” He was joined in his snickering by the stableman, Ligur.

It was to be expected, this gossip and sniping. It was the most exciting day they’d had in months, but Crowley was tired of it. He didn’t like the speculation and undercutting, and when they spoke about the way Aziraphale looked Crowley’s fuse grew shorter. Before his temper flared, he retreated to the garage, where he’d been the rest of the afternoon.

In the dark it was easier. No one to look at him, to study his face, to breathe down his neck with orders. He never got more free than this. In the black of night he could safely let his thoughts roam. They could go to the darker places then, as far as he liked, knowing the morning would be clearer for it. No grey clouds lingering over his head.

Unlacing his boots, he thought back to the fantasy he had entertained the moment he’d first laid eyes on Aziraphale. That he’d be a local man. Not a worker or a farmer, but perhaps a merchant. Something that would keep his hands and form soft. A teacher, perhaps. Aziraphale had the look of a teacher about him. Crowley would see him at the pub, and maybe he’d ask Crowley about the handsome car he’d been driving.

Or Crowley could ask where he’d come from, tell him he didn’t look like he was from around here. Yes, he’d be the one to start up a conversation. He wouldn’t be taking the back seat in his own fantasy.

In the loud pub he’d have to lean in to hear him. His ear next to Aziraphale’s lips, so close he’d be able to feel the breath of him on his skin. Then Aziraphale would need to come close to hear Crowley, and if their bodies brushed against one another by accident they’d have only the noise to blame.

He took a shuddering breath and ran both hands through his hair. He’d been wrong. This wasn’t even remotely safe. Safe were the fantasies that featured men with blurry features and indistinguishable accents. Throwaway reveries that didn’t threaten to make him blush whenever he held the car door open for his employer.

Crowley cursed himself for the miscalculation. He willed the dull ache between his legs to subside as he laid down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. 

The nights were free, yes, but they were lonely too.

* * *

When Anathema entered the dining room for breakfast, Aziraphale was already there reading the London paper over a cup of tea and a soft boiled egg. He smiled when he saw her, a warm sort of thing that she might’ve tried to return were her eyes not still swollen and cheeks still stiff from the crying she’d done the night before, her face pressed into her pillow, swallowing sobs. Somehow, she’d woken up more exhausted than when she went to sleep.

“Good morning, Anathema. Are you well?” he asked, putting the paper aside. She wished he wouldn’t. She had no desire to be looked at, questioned, however politely.

“Good morning, Cousin,” she muttered as Morningstar helped her with her chair and served her tea. She stared into the delicate china teacup. Her grandmother in America used to read tea leaves, and had once told Anathema that great things were in store for her. She wondered bitterly if a betrothal to an unserious man twice her age counted as  _ great things _ .

“Will Lady Tadfield be joining us?”

“Granny has breakfast brought to her in bed. Could I have a piece of toast, Morningstar?” The toast appeared in front of her before she finished saying the butler’s name.

“Oh, isn’t that nice,” said Aziraphale, and she finally looked up at him. He was studying her in an unassuming and innocent sort of way, but studying her all the same. “If that’s what you usually do, you should keep doing it. I’d hate to think you dragged yourself down here on my account.” 

“I didn’t,” she said, buttering her toast.

“Ah, oh.” Aziraphale’s smile faltered at Anathema’s coldness, but returned as quickly as it had slipped.

“Unmarried women eat at the table.” She took a bite of toast. It didn’t taste like much of anything at the moment, which was the fault of her own palette, and not the cook’s. On better days she could’ve eaten an entire fresh made loaf all on her own. Missing a single bite, she placed the slice back down on her plate.

“I see,” said Aziraphale. “Well, I am very glad to be in your company then.”

He was trying. She could see it in the way his eyes searched her face, the way he leaned forward in his chair, just a bit, just testing the waters.

What would his face look like when she stood across from him at a church alter?

Her stomach dropped. “On second thought I don’t have much of an appetite. I think I’ll take a walk.” She threw her napkin on the table and pushed her chair out clumsily before Morningstar could be there to assist her.

“Might I accompany you?”

“No, no. I, uh -” She searched for an excuse that made sense. “You haven’t finished your breakfast, and Dagon is so good. You leave this afternoon and you won’t get a chance for, um, another couple of weeks, or however long it is before you’re back.”

“Ah, yes,” he settled back into his chair and nodded at her. “You’re absolutely right, my dear. I shall endeavor to stay right here, and try a bit of everything. It looks just scrummy.”

His eyes on hers told her that he knew exactly what she was doing, and he was letting her have her way. She wondered how long this patience and indulgence would last. 

She didn’t want to marry him. But if she didn’t, did that mean she’d be shuttled off to another stranger? She could try to escape back to America, pack a bag in the night and beg Crowley to take her to the train station. If he did her grandmother would probably have him arrested for kidnapping.

She left the house through the glass doors of the conservatory, and meandered down through the gardens. It was an unseasonably warm morning. She scarcely needed the shawl slung over her shoulders and she welcomed the sun on her face. For a moment she closed her eyes and tilted her face up. Like this she could pretend she was back in Rhode Island, with the sea not far away and the salt air filling her lungs.

“M’lady.”

Anathema opened her eyes with a start. Hastur passed by her, keeping his distance, as he always did. As they all always did. In America she’d had servants too, but they were friendlier somehow. Almost like friends. They weren’t, she knew, she wasn’t that naive, but they’d had a bit of a laugh now and then. Here, they all seemed scared of her. That is, with the exception of Morningstar, who was afraid of nothing. 

She nodded at Hastur and continued on, out past the paddock where Ligur had Hera and Demeter out for exercise. They cantered in circles and winnied as he spoke to them in the gentleness that didn’t match his demeanor with other people. He didn’t see Anathema as she wove her way around the fence, and towards the thicket.

The further she got from the house, the less tight her chest felt. At the edge of the trees was a low wooden gate that had been broken for at least as long as she could remember. She glanced quickly over her shoulder then levered herself over.

She knew immediately that she’d miscalculated. She’d hopped this gate a hundred times. A thousand. Yet her ankle got caught on the edge and her legs tangled in her dress, then her hip hit the ground with an inelegant thud. The lace hem of her skirt had caught on a splinter and torn half off. The side of her that had met with the forest floor was coated in dirt. Her grandmother would love this.

Instead of getting up she surrendered her body to the ground completely. Maybe she would die here, she thought. Just let the ground absorb her. She would become mushrooms and long grasses. That would be romantic way to go, to die in the woods. Maybe. Or a horrible one. Romantic if one died by ennui and became part of nature, less so if one were mauled by a bear and eaten whole. Were there bears in south west England, she wondered. 

Then to the side of her there was a commotion in the trees. She turned her head as four small figures darted by. With some effort she propped herself up on her elbows, to watch the children run past, but one of them, a slight bespectacled boy had caught the movement, and let out a high-pitched and startled yelp.

“A witch!” he yelled, pointing at her with an accusatory finger. The other children stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at her, varying levels of fear painted across their young features. Not one of them could’ve been older than ten. Three boys and a girl. Besides the lad in the glasses there was a dark haired boy with a long nose and a face smeared with dirt, a girl with a curly mop of brown hair and appraising and skeptical eyes, and finally a boy with golden curls and a face that would have found an easy home in paintings of saints. There was something about him, something serious and calm that was more characteristic of an adult. 

“‘Bout time,” the golden boy said. “We’ve been looking for days.”

“I’m not a witch,” Anathema said, struggling to her feet.

“You look like a witch,” said the girl in a tone that didn’t suggest debate.

Anathema looked down at herself. Her dress was torn and filthy, when she reached up and touched her hair, her hand came away holding a twig. Her glasses were lopsided on her nose. She supposed she couldn’t blame their conclusion. 

“Not a witch,” she repeated.

“What are you then?” asked the boy with the dirt speckled cheeks.

“American,” she replied.

The children turned to the golden boy, as if waiting for some sort of verdict. He considered Anathema a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah. That sounds right. You  _ look _ like an American.”

Anathema wrinkled her nose. “And what do Americans look like?”

“Lot like witches, I suppose,” said the boy, all seriousness.

Anathema laughed as the golden boy approached. “I’m Adam,” he said. “And these are Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper. You’ve got leaves in your hair. I live just down the hill, past the trees. At Jasmine Cottage. I live with my mum and dad and sister.”

“I’m Anathema,” she offered when she thought he was done with his introduction. She smoothed her hands over her mussed up hair, looking for forest floor detritus, and discarding it.

“That’s a funny name,” Adam said.

“No funnier than yours,” Anathema replied, mock sternly.

“Mines not funny at all. It’s from the bible.” He sounded disappointed. “Where do you live?”

Anathema looked up behind her. One couldn’t see the house from here. It was tucked away behind the bank. “Just, over there.” She waved vaguely in the direction of Tadfield Manor.

Adam looked back to his friends a moment. They were waiting for his next decision it seemed, twitching in anticipation. “I think I’m bored of witch hunting now. Let’s go see the goats and pigs back at my house. Maybe Sarah will let us feed them.”

He turned behind him and started down towards the trees, then looked back over his shoulder. “Are you coming then?” he asked Anathema.

“Oh, um. Okay,” she said, and she joined the line-up.

They went down through the trees and over the hill, down a gentle embankment and through a field where cows watched them pass through chewing on glass. Wensleydale kept shooting wary glances back at her, apparently not yet totally satisfied that she wasn’t indeed a witch.

The cottage came into view, thatched roof and dark brown shutters. Outbuildings and pens for the animals. There were a few chickens wandering about, not confined to any pen. They must’ve trusted them not to stray too far from home.

As they approached, Adam ran back and grabbed her hand, then began to pull her forward. “We have one baby goat!” he exclaimed, hauling on her arm. They came up to the side of a fence and Adam reached over it, pointing. “Look! D’you see him?”

A small brown goat tottered after it’s mother on unsteady legs. Several of the goats trotted over to Anathema and the children, looking for something to eat.

“Can we feed them?” asked Pepper.

Adam climbed up on the bottom rung of the fence, leaned over it, and hollered in a way only children could manage in the general direction of the other outbuilding. “Sarah! Can we feed the goats?” In spite of the outburst, the goats were unmoved. 

A young woman came out from around the wall of the goats’ shelter. She was about Anathema’s age, perhaps a bit older. She was as golden-haired as Adam, and too young to be his mother, so she had to be the aforementioned sister. Her blue dress was wrinkled and the edges brown with mud. She had her apron gathered in her arms, carrying some sort of feed that she was sprinkling on the ground for the chickens that followed at her heels.

“If you like,” she said. “Just not too much. And who’s this?” She nodded at Anathema, a tentative smile on her lips.

“Aname… Anniema… Anna. We found her in the woods.” said Adam.

Sarah raised a questioning eyebrow at Anathema and she shrugged.  _ Anna _ was close enough, and he wasn’t lying.

“Will you be feedin’ the goats as well?” Sarah asked.

“I’ve never done it before, so perhaps I’ll just watch for now.”

“Good idea. S’real complicated job.” She gave Anathema a wry smile, teasing her, then continued her chores.

Anathema’s words failed her, but she couldn’t help to smile back. Her eyes followed the girl as she meandered out of sight.

She watched the children throw hay to the very enthusiastic goats, and Adam diligently explained that there would be more baby goats - “they’re actually called kids” - and that the brown one was just the first. He chattered at length about which one was his favourite, and how he preferred them over the pigs. The children argued amongst themselves over the feeding routine, and Anathema was keen to listen and be distracted. It occurred to her that it was the lightest she’d felt in ages, and that since her run in with this rag-tag gang, she hadn’t so much as thought of her predicament back at the house.

Every so often she would search the yard for signs of Sarah, and a flutter of disappointment would rise and fall in her chest when she failed to appear.

She hadn’t realized at all how much time had passed until a woman called from the door of the cottage that it was time for tea. Anathema looked up and the sun was high in the sky. It must be going on noon.

The children started on towards the house while Anathema lingered by the fence, wondering if she should head back up to the Manor. Aziraphale would be leaving in a few hours and if she wasn’t there to bid him goodbye she’d never hear the end of it.

“Well, aren’t you coming then?” Pepper asked as the rest of the children headed in.

She supposed she was. 

As her eyes adjusted to the dark of the kitchen, the children gathered around the table, soup and bread at the ready. She felt hands gently land on her arms as Sarah came in behind her and moved her out of the way. Anathema’s heart constricted for just a second before returning to its regular pace. 

The mother, nearly as blond as her children, was pulling a second loaf of bread out of the stove. She turned to the room and made to put it on the table when her eyes landed on Anathema and she gasped. She nearly dropped the loaf on the floor, but recovered and put it to the side.

“Lady Anathema! Oh, I didn’t know… I didn’t see… What are you doing here?” The woman beat her hands on her apron frantically, and tried to push the stray strands of hair that had fallen into her face back behind her ears. Anathema realized that she’d met this woman before. At her father’s funeral. She was a tenant on her father’s land, it all made perfect sense.

“I-”

“She was laying on the ground in the forest. We thought she was a witch!” interrupted Adam.

“She looks like a witch,” said Wensleydale with reproach.

“You’re a  _ Lady _ ?” asked Pepper, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“‘Course she is,” said Sarah. “Only  _ Ladies _ have time to lay about in the woods in a fancy dress like that!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and it was clear she had known who Anathema was from the second she’d laid eyes on her. Anathema loved being part of the joke, even if it was largely at her own expense.

“Witches too,” Brian contributed.

“Don’t say that,” the mother yelped, punctuating each word with a light swat across Brian’s shoulders with the dish towel that had previously lain across her shoulders.

“I don’t mean to intrude. I was looking at… the goats,” said Anathema, remembering her manners.

The woman composed herself. Deirdre Young, Anathema remembered now. Her husband was Arthur. Yes, she remembered. “That is perfectly fine, m’lady. You are always welcome to see… the goats.”

“Can Anna stay for tea, mum?” asked Adam, spinning round in his chair.

Deirdre wrung her hands.

“Only if no one makes a fuss,” said Anathema.

“Yeah mum, don’t break out the fine china!” Sarah slid into one of the remaining chairs and pulled a bowl towards herself. “Go on then,” she said. “Take a seat.”

Anathema smiled, and did as she was told.

* * *

“Anathema! Where have you been? What  _ happened _ to you?”

Aziraphale had been waiting in the Great Hall with Agnes, who was presently aghast at the appearance of her granddaughter. Aziraphale should have left for the station several minutes earlier, but Agnes had insisted he bid farewell to Anathema. He suspected that Anathema may have been happier for him to be gone when she returned, but as he was learning, Agnes was not a woman one argued with.

Anathema appeared from the back hall at the last possible moment she could. Her dress was torn and covered in dirt, as if she’d been rolling in it. Her hair was half down. She was entirely disheveled, and, Aziraphale thought, the happiest she’d been since his arrival at Tadfield Manor the day before. The gloom that chased the girl like a cloud appeared to have lifted, if just for now.

He was pleased to see it, that she could be happy. That she was not a young woman entirely enraptured by ennui and the romance of sadness. These were times of change for her, her emotional state was bound to be a bit unstable, but when he returned, he’d see if he couldn’t set things right. She did have a brilliant smile, and he should like it to be on her face more often.

“I took a walk,” she said, smoothing her skirts to no effect.

“You look,” said Agnes, her words laced in venomous disappointment, “like you’ve been mucking about in a pig sty.”

“I tripped,” Anathema replied coolly. “Not injured, though, you’ll be pleased to know.”

“Very pleased,” said Aziraphale, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Something nervous returned to Anathema’s face that he couldn’t quite place. It was a wariness. He was miscalculating somewhere. His subtle offers of help were unsettling her. It wasn’t what he wanted.

“You’d best be on your way, Cousin,” Agnes said, sweeping her arm towards the door, and letting her eyes fall from Anathema’s bedraggled form. Aziraphale worried about the earful she’d get later on.

Aziraphale walked out of doors to be greeted by several of the staff from the upstairs in a neat little line. The car was parked there, his bag already packed away, having been taken down by Morningstar. The back door was open, and to the side stood the tall form of Crowley. His eyes were on the gravel. A flutter of disappointment rippled through Aziraphale’s chest at Crowley’s apparent disinterest. He tried to shake it off.

“I trust your visit has been an informative one,” said Agnes, coming forward to take his hands. “You’ll be back with us soon, won’t you?” She was softer than she had been just then, and Aziraphale was unnerved by it. Was she playing, or was there some fear inside of her that suggested he may just not come back.

“I’ll work to get my affairs in order starting tomorrow morning. When I have an idea of when that will be complete, I’ll send word.”

She looked satisfied. “See that you do.”

He turned to Anathema, paused. He did not wish to overstep his bounds but the desire to make himself clear, to impress upon her that he was nothing to worry about banged about in his head. He extended his hand to her and tentatively (perhaps reluctantly) she took it. There was dirt under her nails. He did not mention it.

“It was lovely to make your acquaintance, my dear girl. I so hope, when I’m back, that I get to learn about you a little more. You seem very bright, and I do so wish to hear about your thoughts on, well, on all this. See if we can’t put things to rights. Yes?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from her, and he could feel the tremor in her hands, a desire to pull back. Her eyes were glued her hand in his, and as gently as he could, given their audience, he dropped it.

The break of contact startled her into a response. “Yes, Cousin. I should like that very much.”

The smiling, lighthearted girl who had made a brief appearance in the Great Hall had vanished. The sad young woman from breakfast was back in her place. Well, he thought, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Trust was earned. He would earn hers in time.

He took a step back and nodded at the servants. The men nodded back more deeply, the maids curtsied.

“Until next time.” Aziraphale stepped into the car, noticed how Crowley avoided his gaze as he closed the door behind him. Aziraphale looked to Agnes and Anathema outside the car and raised a hand in a muted farewell. 

It still felt like a visit. Nothing about any of this, the house, the car, the staff especially, felt as if it were his. The women, his family, were strangers. Yet he was abandoning everything, every happiness he knew for them. A knot tied itself up into increasingly complicated formations in his throat, and he swallowed it down, the weight of it finding a painful home in his gut.

The car shifted as Crowley slid into the front seat. “Are you ready, m’Lord? To go, I mean,” he said.

“Yes, I think I am,” Aziraphale replied, and with that, Crowley pulled away, and the Manor and its residents faded from view.

Aziraphale stared at the back of Crowley’s head, the long line of his neck. His hair tapered into a point at the nape, and one longer lock gave the suggestion of a curl. He wondered if it would be soft and his fingers twitched in his lap.

He blinked a few times, and huffed a small laugh at his own expense. He may be an Earl, but he was a ridiculous man.

“Alright?” asked Crowley from behind the wheel.

Aziraphale startled, felt his cheeks get warm. “Oh, yes. Yes. Perfectly fine. Tickety boo.”

“Tickety boo,” Crowley repeated, something skirting very close to teasing in his words. “Glad to hear it.”

Aziraphale blushed again and looked out the window. A ridiculous man. 

Every so often his eyes would leave the countryside scene to return to the man in front of him. He very much wanted to speak to Crowley, but to what end? What intimacy could he hope to establish? What did he hope to do, other than make the other man uneasy?

He wondered if all of their interactions for the foreseeable future would be of this kind, fifteen minutes in a shared vehicle, to the station and back. He wondered how much a man like him would need the car to travel. Enough, he thought hopefully, to have a driver on staff.

They reached the station and Aziraphale climbed out of the car before Crowley could reach his door. The man’s thin hand was extended, and he looked minorly alarmed at Aziraphale’s exiting the car on his own.

“You’re supposed to, ah… I can do that for you, m’Lord. Get the door, that is.” Crowley closed the door behind him. 

“Right, I keep forgetting. I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Crowley looked up to him with a thin, but not unkind, smile. In the late afternoon sun, the strands of his red hair that had escaped his black cap glinted like a flame. And his eyes. Aziraphale had seen them yesterday, of course. He’d noticed them even from a distance. They were like the clearest honey, and in this light they were precious amber. In that moment, he suddenly felt that his heart couldn’t bear it if Crowley looked away.

“It’s funny,” he started, the words coming fast and on top of one another. “I wonder if the people who live this way all their lives even know how to open or close a door on their own. If there’s no one there to help them, do they just… not come or go? Do they get stuck in a room until some poor housemaid comes to their rescue?” He giggled nervously.

Crowley’s face changed slowly, from bemusement to surprise to a sort of quiet delight that creased the corners of those extraordinary eyes.

“I wouldn’t know, m’Lord. Been opening doors my whole life. Closing them too. I’m a...” he paused, then grinned. “A professional.”

The grin, that flash of fine, white teeth set Aziraphale sideways, and he was sure Crowley could see the catch of his breath. The words that left his lips next came entirely unbidden. “You’ve very interesting eyes. I suspect other people have told you that.”

Crowley’s grin slipped away and his mouth dropped open as if he had been caught off guard, and Aziraphale figured he had been. He sought to dial back his words, to temper what he suspected was his obvious admiration. 

“It’s just that I’ve not seen a colour like that before. Light brown, er, gold. I should probably get my bag. The train should be here…” He finally pulled his eyes from Crowley’s face and the spell, or whatever it was that had lived between the two of them for a few spare moments was broken. Aziraphale felt as if he were choking on something. Where did he think he was? The club? He swallowed painfully as Crowley’s face went pink and his expression uncomfortable.

“Your bag. Yes, m’Lord. Of course. I’m sorry.” He retrieved it from its place on the front seat and Aziraphale reached out to receive it. “I can take it to the platform for you.”

A few more moments with him. 

Because he was the driver, and that is what the driver’s role entailed.

Aziraphale was astonished at his own ability to manufacture something deeper from nothing.  _ This man _ , he reminded himself,  _ is in your employ _ . It was his job to humour Aziraphale, to treat him well. He did not have the luxury of indifference.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he said, reeling back the fondness that had begun to lace his words. He went ahead of Crowley, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

As the train pulled up to the station, he finally turned back to Crowley and accepted his bag. When he took it, his fingers brushed against the driver’s.

“Again, thank you. I’ll be seeing you again very soon, I expect.”

“Yes sir,” said Crowley, nodding in deference. “Until then.”

“Until then,” Aziraphale repeated, studying Crowley’s feet.

The train left the platform, and Aziraphale watched Crowley leave. He pulled off his cap, ran his fine hands through his red hair. Aziraphale’s lips parted, his tongue dipped out to wet his lips. His fingers burned from where he had touched Crowley.

Then Crowley looked back over his shoulder, hair tousled over his forehead, and their eyes met for just a fraction of a second.

Aziraphale’s chest constricted, and for the split of that moment he thought that maybe… He thought that perhaps…

He was a ridiculous man. 


	3. Chapter 3

#  June 1913

He had been at Tadfield for two weeks. Each morning Aziraphale would wake up and cross to the window, watch the sun rise in the east, and think with some melancholy back to his final days in London. He’d be back to the city now and then, of course, and he still harboured hopes that at some point he’d have the management of the house so slickly organized that he could take up residence in the city again, but any possibility of that was a far way off.

His last nights in the city had been spent at the club, smoking and drinking more than was strictly necessary, drowning his sorrows in port and good wine. He let the alcohol blur his vision and the server with the slim build and auburn hair looked more like the driver at Tadfield the later the night got. That is, if he held his head just so, and if the dim lamp light hit him in such a way. On another night Aziraphale might have invited the boy to drink with him, to keep him company, but the idea felt painful now. It would only serve to highlight what he was losing. Then there was the small fact that when the boy got close, he didn’t much look like the driver at all. His features weren’t as sharp, his eyes plain and uninspiring.

During the days of that final week he’d packed up his flat by himself, though his ascending to the title of Earl meant he had more than enough funds at his disposal to hire someone else to do it. He bid farewell to many of his books, and made a point to hold each one in his hands before packing them into boxes. He wasn’t getting rid of them, he couldn't dream of such a thing. He was merely putting them into storage, and maybe someday in the not too distant future, he would have the chance to retrieve them.

A fair few of his books made their way to Tadfield, and since moving in he’d set himself up in the library. It was a room for the man of the house and he was determined to see it restored to its rightful purpose. More books lined the shelves than ever before and he’d seen to it that a few choice pieces of furniture from his flat made their way there as well. They were considerably more humble than what had populated the space, and he’d witnessed the look of muted horror on Mr. Morningstar’s face when the worn armchairs were carried in by the movers. Though of course, the very picture of propriety, he held his tongue.

Agnes was also silent in the face of these efforts, though this was likely because she was so pleased that Aziraphale had returned to stay with no argument. Indeed, her first emotion upon seeing him had appeared to be relief swiftly followed by gratitude. There’d been little of the ferocity she had displayed at their first meeting, though Aziraphale suspected she was made of it, and it was always lingering under the surface for when it was next required. 

Anathema, in spite of his attempts to speak with her, to get to know her, had been scarce. She’d vanish into the garden, saying she was taking long walks or declare she was going riding, then barely be back in time to dress for dinner. When she’d return, there would be a glow about her, some private happiness. Aziraphale said nothing of these disappearances, and wondered if she had a secret beau. He suspected Agnes harboured concerns on this same topic, by the way she’d stare out the windows late in the afternoon as Anathema failed to return from her outings at a time more becoming of a young lady.

In spite of his early hopes that he might take a more active role in the Device family life, in particular Anathema’s upbringing (what there was left of it, at any rate), he felt his best approach this early on was to embrace silence on all matters where Anathema was concerned. He suspected any intervention at this time, when they were all still finding their footing around one another would be unwelcome. In the meantime, he observed and tried to learn as much as possible.

His afternoons and evenings in the quiet countryside were spent with ledgers spread out in front of him on the library desk, the estate manager, Mr. Thaddeus Dowling, hovering at his shoulder pointing out major expenditures, long time tenants and newer ones, potential places where costs could be cut. When Aziraphale asked for the budget for the running of the house, Mr. Dowling deferred to both Morningstar and the housekeeper, Missus Beelzebub. “None of my business, sir,” he said.

Early on, Mr. Dowling insisted it would endear Aziraphale to the tenants should he visit each and every one of them. So each day, following breakfast, he would meet Mr. Dowling by the front doors of Tadfield and they would embark on one farm or cottage or another. In their travels they spent a generous amount of time in the car, and Aziraphale spent a significant portion of this time studying the way that Crowley’s hair tapered into a soft point at the nape of his neck. The estate manager never noticed the Earl’s indifference. If he had, Aziraphale could have said that a fixed point of contact calmed his nervous stomach in the car, which as it happened, wasn’t untrue. He was finding that car rides left him queasy. If it weren’t Crowley in the driver’s seat, Aziraphale might’ve insisted they walk.

On a sunny and unreasonably warm morning, Aziraphale met Mr. Dowling outside the house and they climbed into the car. The estate manager leaned over the front seat to Crowley and said, “Jasmine Cottage.”

“Yes sir,” Crowley said, and took the two men down the drive. Jasmine Cottage was one of the closer farms. Mid-sized. Small farmhouse with a handful of outbuildings, much like the ones Aziraphale had visited all this week. And like the other ones, he was accepted onto the premises with a sort of anxious generosity. Deirdre Young had laid out what was clearly her best china on the kitchen table, a pattern of pink roses on a white background, and fussed about, ensuring he had something to eat. When her son and his gang attempted to come into the kitchen, she all but threw them out.

Arthur Young, her husband, was a serious, no-nonsense sort of man who if he was affected in any way by Aziraphale’s presence, did not show it. 

“I keep pigs here m’Lord. Prize winners. Good pigs. Some goats as well. Would you like to see?”

In his survey of the properties of the estate, Aziraphale had had ample opportunity to see farm animals of every kind, and truthfully, though he had listened closely as each farmer had explained how their herd was superior to all other herds in the area, Aziraphale found that he could not tell the difference from one pig to the other, or one sheep to its neighbour. Still, it was only polite to allow each of his tenants the opportunity to share with him their livelihoods.

Mr. Young, Mr. Dowling, and Aziraphale emerged into the noon sunlight, and the Earl could feel sweat gather at his brow immediately. If the sun kept up the way it was, he’d sweat through his suit within the hour, which would not do. He sighed. “Gentlemen, please excuse me a moment.”

He began to walk towards the car. Crowley had lingered there in his black suit, sensibly staying far away from the dusty farmyard. When he noticed Aziraphale approaching, he stood to attention.

“M’Lord.”

Aziraphale grimaced ever so slightly. While he was adjusting to the titles, the formality, he didn’t like it from Crowley’s lips. It merely served to emphasize the distance between their positions. 

Aziraphale slipped his jacket from his shoulders and laid it over his arm then removed his hat. “Would you mind terribly if I left these with you, Crowley? We’re going to go see the animals,” he offered by way of explanation. “And it’s just a bit toasty.”

Crowley’s mouth had gone soft, dropped open just a little, before he caught himself and snapped his jaw shut. Aziraphale wondered if he was acting very unbecoming of his title. He must be, to inspire that sort of response. Who, in this situation, was he embarrassing more: Crowley, or himself?

“Ah, yes Sir. Of course.” Crowley received Aziraphale’s garments, held them carefully as if they were priceless relics. Aziraphale watched as he opened the back door of the car, and laid them down with deliberate attention, smoothing the jacket out so it was without wrinkles. Crowley took the lapel between his long fingers, pressed it flat.

Aziraphale took a brief study of Crowley’s face, the line of his nose, his strong brow. Strangely, it felt more familiar to him now than the faces of friends and colleagues he’d known for years. Yet Crowley was essentially a mystery. It was an odd paradox, that barriers were built between his world and Crowley’s, while so many of the roles in service seemed designed to foster intimacy. This was the way of this world, he knew. The lines were clearly drawn. But when he saw Crowley’s hands on the clothing that had so recently been on his person, in his mind the lines faded away. He wondered if Crowley was that careful with everything he touched.

“Lord Tadfield?” called Mr. Dowling from the farmyard, and Aziraphale was shaken from his revery.

“Ah, thank you, Crowley. So very much.” 

Crowley closed the door to the car, and his eyes seemed to drift to Aziraphale’s throat. He couldn’t even look him in the face. Or perhaps he wasn’t supposed to. Aziraphale couldn’t keep track of who wasn’t supposed to look at who. “You’re welcome, m’Lord.”

Aziraphale returned to Mr. Young and Mr. Dowling in his shirt and waistcoat, and neither man made mention of it. 

“This is my daughter, Sarah,” said Mr. Young as their small party approached a large pig pen. The girl was pouring water into a trough and looked thoroughly capable. “Sarah, this is Lord Tadfield.”

Her eyes lit up in recognition and she did a shallow curtsy as best she could in the mud of the yard. “M’Lord,” she said, and returned to her work.

Mr. Young took them on a full tour of the yard, though they were briefly sidetracked by an aggressive goose. They gave it a wide berth, which led them around one of the outbuildings.

In the distance, on the crest of a hill, played five children. Running and circling one another, peals of their laughter rolling down the slope like the sweetest thunder. In the bright sun, Aziraphale brought his hand up to shield his eyes, and watched them for a moment, trying to catch up with whatever game they played.

It was then that he realized that one of the children wasn’t a child at all, but a young woman, seated in the grass. From this distance he couldn’t quite make out her features, but he’d come to know that dark hair, now in disarray, and the dark green day dress was the one she’d left the house in this very morning. He had looked at it over the breakfast table, had thought it a very flattering colour for her.

Was this where Anathema had been escaping to, day after day? So desperate for friendship that she had turned to children nearly half her age, children of tenants. 

“Oh, my dear,” he whispered to himself, his heart wrenching sharply in sympathy. 

Then Mr. Dowling called him back, and they continued their rounds.

* * *

The Youngs had gotten a dog.

“Dad says we’ve got to train him good and then we might get sheep. He’s a sheep dog.” Adam sat very close as Anathema held the puppy in her arms, reaching out now and then to readjust him, clearly not confident in Anathema’s dog holding abilities.

“He’s so soft. What’s his name?” Anathema pushed her nose into the downy fur on top of the puppy’s black and white head.

“Dog. Dad says there’s not much point in giving him another name. But it’s alright though. I think he seems like a Dog.”

The puppy had fallen asleep in Anathema’s arms. Perhaps she’d ask her grandmother for a dog, a companion and ally to have close at hand at the house. If her grandmother said no, she’d ask Aziraphale, who would almost certainly say yes. 

Since arriving on a more permanent basis, Aziraphale had given her quite a lot of space. His questions to her were minimal, and often required as part of whatever situation they found themselves in. He was still kind, his questions were not cool or unfeeling, and when she looked at him she could see the invitation in his eyes for more, but she deferred. 

She’d overheard a conversation one evening between her grandmother and Aziraphale, before she joined them for dinner. With her ear to the door, she‘d listened to Agnes ask Aziraphale of his plans for marriage. The estate had been saved for the time being with his arrival, but the title still required a proper heir. 

Aziraphale had laughed nervously, claimed he hadn’t really thought about it, which seemed impossible to Anathema. Wasn’t this all titled men thought of? The legacy of their names? At any rate Aziraphale sounded eager to abandon the subject, asking Agnes who she had visited that day, if she had plans to go to London for a season. Agnes was not so easily put off and she told Aziraphale that she would make some enquiries on his behalf. 

At that moment Morningstar had appeared at Anathema’s back and she’d be forced to reveal herself to the parlour as the butler announced that dinner was being served.

Aziraphale had been pink-faced and his fingertips came together and apart in a nervous dance. He looked intensely thankful at Anathema’s appearance, eagerly asking her how she’d spent her day.

The longer she knew Aziraphale (which wasn’t that long, she supposed) the less she felt she understood him. She had no good grasp of his interest in her. She couldn’t tell if it was politeness or if he harboured some ulterior motive. She did know that he wanted to please her, and so if she asked for a dog, she would get one.

“It’s my turn,” said Brian, who extracted the sleepy puppy from Anathema’s arms. She halfheartedly picked white dog hairs off her dress. She could already tell Missus Beelzebub and the maids were frustrated with the state her recent activities left her clothing in. This would be no exception.

The sun had moved across the sky. It was still bright, given their proximity to the summer solstice, but Anathema knew it was getting closer to the time she’d be expected back. She pulled at the long grass with her fists in irritation.

“Oi, Adam, you’ve got to go feed the chickens!”

Their band of five, who’d been up on the hill with the puppy for the greater part of the afternoon looked down to see Sarah trudging up to them. Anathema so frequently saw her in the midst of chores and tasks that to see the woman with empty arms was still something of a novelty to her.

“And you three. Your parents will be wanting you home.” Sarah’s admonishment conspicuously did not include Anathema.

The children grumbled their goodbyes to Anathema and collected themselves to head down the hill. As Brian passed by Sarah, she plucked Dog from his arms.

“I’ll hold on to that, thank you very much.” The puppy stirred limply in her arms as she came up to take a place beside Anathema. She settled into the grass and Dog snuggled into her chest. 

The sunlight had gone golden and so had Sarah. Pink too. She was burned across her nose and cheeks and it set her freckles into stark relief. Her hair was pressed to her temples with sweat. She looked disheveled. Something unfamiliar stirred and turned over in Anathema’s belly.

“Your people’ll be missin’ you as well, won’t they?” Sarah asked, looking down at the creature on her chest, cupped in her hands.

Anathema shrugged, pulling her gaze away from the woman beside her. “Maybe. I don’t care.”

Sarah chuckled sarcastically. “Having a real rough go in the big house, are ya?” 

When Anathema didn’t respond, Sarah leaned over to her. “Your cousin was here today. Didn’t seem the bad sort, if you ask me. For an Earl anyway.”

Anathema’s gaze snapped to Sarah. “What did you say to him? Did you tell him I was here?”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “I didn’t tell him anything. Barely even said hello. He might’ve seen you though, up here on the hill.” She watched Anathema’s fidgeting. “You’re right jumpy. Is he mean to you, or something?”

Anathema laid back in the grass and covered her face with her hands. “No, he’s not. He’s nice.”

“So, what’s the problem then?”

Anathema sighed. “My grandmother wants me to marry him.”

A complicated series of emotions crossed Sarah’s face that Anathema could tell she was desperately trying to reel back in. Surprise, disgust, confusion. “Oh,” was all she said, as she placed the sleeping Dog on the grass between them.

“Yeah,” responded Anathema.

“He’s a bit older than you.”

“He’s old enough to be my father.” She looked up at the clouds passing overhead, and after a beat, Sarah mirrored her position.

“Is there someone else you want to marry?” she asked.

“Ugh, no. I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Isn’t that what all Ladies think about? Finding a fine husband with a fine house and having fine children?” Sarah spoke as if there was meant to be derision in her voice, but she’d lost heart the second she opened her mouth.

“Not me,” said Anathema. She turned her head to look at Sarah out of the corner of her eye. Her burnt nose curved up in a little slope. Anathema’s finger had a curious itch to reach out and trace that profile.

“Maybe you’ll marry one of the princes,” said Sarah, a grin cracking across her face.

“Aw, no!” cried Anathema, pushing herself up and looking down at the prone woman beside her. “They’re your brother’s age.” She made a face.

Sarah released a full throated laugh, and Anathema felt the ugly expression slip from her face as she gave in to laughter as well. She didn’t always make Sarah laugh, but when she did, it felt like something of an accomplishment.

Later on, she snuck in the servant’s entrance, and meant to make up the staircase without being caught, but as she swung around the corner came face to face with the head housekeeper.

“Lady Anathema, what are you…” Missus Beelzebub’s question trailed off as she got a full glimpse of the state of Anathema’s dress. She sighed heavily.

“Is Lord Tadfield in?” Anathema asked, standing tall, trying not to let the housekeeper’s stern glare diminish her. For an exceptionally tiny woman, her presence was deeply threatening. 

“He’s in the library, my Lady.”

“Thank you, Missus Beelzebub,” she called over her shoulder as she clambered up the stairs. 

The door to the library was closed and she knocked lightly. Aziraphale’s response came almost instantly.

“Come in! Oh, Anathema. What a pleasant surprise.” 

Her cousin closed the book he’d been reading and placed it on the desk. He sat with his spine perfectly aligned, even when alone. The smile on his face seemed genuine, and it did not disappear as he took in her appearance. 

Immediately, under his knowing gaze, she knew he had seen her at Jasmine Cottage.

She closed the door behind her and took a step closer to him. “Please don’t tell Granny where you saw me today. She won’t let me go back, and…” 

_ And it is my one happiness. They are my only friends. _

Aziraphale studied her face. His eyes were soft. They usually were but there was a new quality to them now. Some deeper understanding. “My dear girl,” he started, “tell her what? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you all day.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

He watched her still, then tentatively extended his hand. His soft, plump palm a bright white spot in the dark room. She wondered if she should be scared to accept it.

Regardless of her own desires, she couldn’t very well leave him without a response. Silently she stepped forward, and took it.

He looked up at her, and she down at him. He held her hand delicately, like it was a dried flower at risk of coming apart at the slightest pressure.

“Anathema,” he said, voice almost at a whisper, “I do hope that you will let me help you, let me make this easier for you.”

She didn’t want to be wary of him. She so profoundly wanted to believe that he wished to set her free, but she didn’t know enough. Not yet. For the time being, she simply nodded.

* * *

Morningstar addressed Crowley over their breakfast. “The Earl will not be leaving the house today, and neither Lady Tadfield nor Lady Anathema has plans for visiting. So, there will be no need for the car.”

Crowley nodded over his porridge. He wasn’t a morning person, and didn’t much feel like expending his limited energy extending his conversation with Morningstar any further. He didn’t envy the housemaids who leaned over their breakfasts eating quickly, half a day’s work already under their belt when the sun was barely above the horizon. In addition, he worried any response would give away his disappointment. Even if he hadn’t been speaking with the Earl on the excursions, to be in his presence had been a sort of pleasant and anxious discomfort.

Although Morningstar hadn’t said it, Crowley knew the expectation would be for him to find something to keep himself occupied, ideally, something to help the household. Hastur always had tasks for an extra set of hands.

The gardens were Hastur’s domain, and had been his father’s domain before that. It wasn’t an uncommon set up for this sort of work, to inherit a role in service generation after generation, but unlike Hastur senior, the current gardener was mediocre in his position at best. 

In his travels with the former Earl, he’d seen gardens at country houses all over southern England, had seen palm trees and massive topiaries. At one house a lady’s maid had taken him through a spectacular glass house with a curved roof. Inside had been orchids in colours he hadn’t known existed. Purples and blues, every yellow. He’d inspected the leaves and counted blooms, while the lady’s maid had waited impatiently over his shoulder, increasingly disappointed as she realized Crowley had forgotten she was there.

Since he’d come back he’d tried to mention orchids to Hastur several times, and was always turned down. “Too much work. Too flashy,” he’d growl. 

So instead of tending orchids in a humid glass mansion, Crowley spent his free days moving through the vegetable patches and orchards, which wasn’t something he could reasonably complain about. He’d weed the spaces between the potatoes and carrots and squash. When it got too warm he’d take shelter between the fruit trees. It was too early to think about picking the plums or apples, but no one could see him out here

He talked to them sometimes, the trees. Offered them some strongly worded encouragement for the autumn harvest. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put out a little extra, so no one will notice when I squirrel some of this lovely stuff back to the garage.” 

The trees kept his secrets, his rants and raves. He was happy to find opportunity to be out here again in the summer sun, and he wove between the trees easily and without anxiety. It wasn’t that the driving as of late had been particularly onerous. Crowley was just grateful for the change of pace, and the surroundings. 

Chauffeuring the Earl was easy work. He was charming, not the slightest bit obnoxious the way these types tended to be. They hadn’t spoken really, what with Mr. Dowling a constant companion in the car, but Crowley felt the man endearing himself to him all the same. 

A few days earlier they had been down at the Young’s and he’d asked Crowley to hold his things, like the driver had been doing him a favour. The whole exchange had left him unsettled. While holding the Earl’s jacket, Crowley had been assaulted by the impulse to smell it, to memorize his employer’s scent for some future daydream. He’d shown no signs of it on his face, he was sure, but he remained mortified at his own lack of mental discipline.

Here, surrounded by leafy trees and with the sun beating overhead, he shed his waistcoat, laying it on the grass. As sweat gathered at his collar, he undid the first two buttons of his shirt. He wished he had some water. 

He dipped under the boughs of a plum tree, heavy with fruit, still green and young. He inspected the roots, rubbed a palm along the trunk. “When August rolls around,” he said into the branches, “you better give me the best damn plum I’ve ever had. Otherwise I’ll take an ax to you. Chop you right down. All your brothers and sisters will have to watch.”

In spite of his tone, he patted the trunk affectionately, and was about to move on to the next tree when he heard gentle footsteps. His head snapped in their direction, expecting Hastur or one of the junior gardeners. But it wasn’t Hastur at all.

“Are they good conversationalists, the trees?” asked a slightly out of breath Earl.

He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick forearms dusted with blonde hair.

“What?” said Crowley, forgetting himself entirely.

“Oh, I just heard you having a bit of a chat. I was, er, making a joke.” The Earl flushed a bit in what must have been discomfort, if not the heat.

“Right, yeah. Trees. Sorry, m’Lord. I wasn’t paying attention.” Crowley cast his gaze wildly about for his waistcoat. It was behind the Earl. He wondered if retrieving it would draw too much attention to the fact that he’d abandoned his clothes to the ground, if that were the kind of thing that would earn him some sort of rebuke.

The Earl’s eyes lingered on Crowley a moment, then he seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My apologies for catching you off guard. I just thought I’ve been so busy seeing everyone else’s properties, I haven’t gotten a very good look at, ah..” He bit his bottom lip, looked sheepish. “My own. I haven’t seen my own.”

Crowley’s hands itched for his waistcoat. He watched as the Earl took a step towards him, but then reached out and held an unripe plum in his hand. “Do you hold more than one position here on the estate? Driving and gardening?”

“Second one is more or less unofficial, but sometimes. If they need a hand.” It would only be later, when he was less flustered, that he’d realized he’d dropped the  _ Sir _ , the  _ my Lord _ .

“Jack of all trades, then.” The Earl’s fingers released the plum, and the bough gently bounced.

“Master of none,” replied Crowley automatically.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’re an excellent driver.”

Before he could respond, they were both distracted by movement in the distance. Through the trees, the lone figure of Lady Anathema was headed in the direction of the woods. There had been considerable whispering downstairs in recent weeks over the Lady’s excursions, and she’d caused a stir just the day before when she’d nearly had a head-on collision with Missus Beelzebub and used the servant’s staircase. An odd one. He liked her.

Crowley turned to look at the Earl’s profile. He watched the girl, and a slightly anxious tremor crossed his face. 

“I think we’re coming to an agreement, she and I. About how things are to go.” He sighed, and looked to the ground. “I do hope I’m doing the right thing.”

The last part was so quiet, Crowley was unsure if it were meant for him. “You don’t seem the type to do the wrong thing.” It was a bit of a blanket statement, but the Earl did seem to have good intentions, even if Crowley had no idea to what agreement the Earl was referencing. It wasn’t Crowley’s business. He just had to drive the car and keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, thank you. I do hope so.” The Earl’s gratitude was genuine, and he gifted Crowley with a shy smile that unlaced him, made his palms sweat. “Are you terribly busy at the moment?”

“Uh, I, no. Not at all.” That was not, Crowley immediately realized, the way to phrase his response. It wouldn’t serve him at all to tell the master of the house that he wasn’t at all busy. 

But it didn’t seem to register with the Earl, whose smile widened. “Might you show me around the gardens then? Only if I wouldn’t be interrupting.”

“Yeah, alright.” His heart beat wildly about his chest. He wondered if the Earl could see his pulse in his neck. He could tell himself these nerves simply related to the fact that he almost never had an extended conversation with someone of this standing, but the truth was it had everything to do with the proximity of this very specific man in front of him, soft and sweet voiced and so very close. 

With the Earl’s blue eyes trained on him, Crowley’s mind ran amuck. It was so easy to picture himself, backing the Earl up against the trunk of an apple tree, and slotting his hand behind his neck, letting his fingers wrap in a curl of that impossibly blond hair.

He cleared his throat and grabbed for his waistcoat, slotting his arms in before realizing he’d got it inside out.

“Oh, may I…” asked the Earl, reaching out, but Crowley ducked him, removing and reversing it, trying to get his wits about him.

“Better get started, they’ll be calling you for lunch before you know it.”

“Quite right. Lead the way.”

Their tour was uninterrupted, for the most part, save a skeptical glance over a hedgerow from Hastur. Crowley shrugged, and Hastur moved on. He’d have questions later, probably, but not now.

The Earl asked questions about the plants, the harvest. He seemed hungry for answers, and to actually listen to what Crowley said. The further they got from the house, the more relaxed the Earl became, the more he dropped the affectations he put on when in the presence of Lady Tadfield or Mr. Dowling. Crowley found himself pre-emptively mourning this version of the man, who would surely slip away once the reality of his situation set in.

The rest of the morning would have been entirely uneventful were it not for the final few moments, coming down off an embankment near the woods, where the orchard ended. From behind him Crowley heard the Earl take a sharp, pained breath. He turned quickly, and saw the Earl take a shuddering step down, then bend over and press a hand hard into the thigh of his right leg. Crowley took a step towards the Earl, arms outstretched. “Are you -”

The Earl held his hand up to stop Crowley, wave him off. “Fine. I’m alright. I, oh, it’s embarrassing.” He stood up to his full height and grimaced, shifting weight to his left side. “I had a bit of an accident as a boy. Some silliness with a horse. It’s mostly healed up but on the rare occasion I catch a funny angle and I get reminded of it. That’s all.”

By the way the Earl refused to meet his eye the way he had most of the afternoon, Crowley suspected that the accident hadn’t been little, and that the Earl was ‘reminded’ of it more than he preferred to let on. “Do you need a moment?”

“No, no, I’m perfectly alright.” 

But neither of them moved, and Crowley watched the little flickers of pain travel across the Earl’s face. 

“Perhaps I should be getting back. I think Lady Tadfield will be wanting lunch. I shan’t be late.” With a grimace, he turned back towards the house.

“Should I,” started Crowley, hesitating. “Er, come with you?”

“Ah, better not,” said the Earl looking back over his shoulder, a small, sad smile on his lips.

Crowley watched him go, a small hitch in his step.

That night, as Crowley left the dinner table, Hastur caught his sleeve. 

“Didja have a nice time with His Lordship?” he said quietly, barely concealing his sneer.

Crowley pulled his arm away, sneered back.

He had had a lovely time, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

#  August 1913

With her grandmother looking over her shoulder and taking inventory of her comings and goings, Anathema found she could only sneak away two, maybe three days a week to the Jasmine Cottage farm. On top of the cloak and dagger routine to simply get out of doors undetected, there was the question of her wardrobe, the state of which made her regular rendez-vous through the woods fairly obvious. She’d had to make other arrangements.

She was sorry to have put Ligur in the position she did, but she couldn’t see another way around it. 

She’d approached the stableman one morning following breakfast, as he brought Hera to a canter in the paddock. Anathema hopped up on the bottom rung of the fence, holding her body back to avoid causing damage to yet another dress. When he saw her, he nodded his head in greeting, but quickly returned his attention to Hera, a smooth chestnut mare, who could be more than a little temperamental when she didn’t have her minder’s full attention. In the morning sun, she watched Ligur skillfully manage Hera, speaking to her in whispered tones. There were hopes in the house that she’s become a good riding horse. Knowing Ligur’s unique skills, it was only a matter of time.

“Excuse me, Ligur?” Anathema called, as he moved Hera to the grazing field. He closed the gate behind him and started in her direction. 

Ligur was a serious man, focused. He kept his eyes downwards as he approached. “Yes, m’Lady?” His voice was heavy, scratchy as if he hadn’t used it much.

Anathema leaned over the fence and put on her brightest smile. “Could I trouble you for a pair of trousers?”

Ligur’s face shot up, his dark eyes flashing in sudden discomfort. “M’lady?”

“Odd request, I know. It’s just that I’ve taken to walking in the woods, and that’s had the effect of messing up my dresses which has sent Missus Beelzebub and Lady Tadfield into a fit and I thought that maybe, if I had a pair of trousers to walk in…”

She watched as trepidation took full control of his features, and she could divine his thinking. It would be difficult, near impossible, for Ligur to deny this request. But if Morningstar were to find out and report back to her grandmother, it wasn’t like Anathema could lose her job as granddaughter. It would be the stableman who would bear the weight of Anathema's subterfuge. Surely, there was a way around it.

As Ligur weighed his options, an idea struck Anathema.

“Weren’t there some pairs left over from the old stableboy, the one who left for a job in town?” she asked in barely concealed excitement. The boy had left months ago, and it was possible that the trousers had been repurposed but-

“Ah, yes,” Ligur nodded. “I think so.”

“And are those in the stable somewhere?”

Something like recognition flitted across Ligur’s features. “Yeah. In the harness room.”

Anathema tilted her head to the side. “And if a pair of trousers left the harness room, do you think you’d notice.”

“Likely not, m’Lady,” he said quietly, his mouth twitching up at the corner.

“Interesting. Very interesting.” She hopped down from the fence, dusting her hands against one another. “That will be all, Ligur.”

She strode with a feigned nonchalance towards the stable, and Ligur walked back to where Hera was waiting for him, her head bobbing as he approached. Anathema looked back over her shoulder at the stableman, and caught his eye for just a moment. In his expression was something like approval.

So that’s how she’d come to Jasmine Cottage in the stableboy’s shirt and trousers, belted tightly at the waist. She’d taken her chances, getting changed in the woods, and there wasn’t much to be done about the corset, but she’d managed alright, and with each day that passed she’d gotten quicker.

Earlier that day she’d trudged around the hills with Adam and his mates, hoping Sarah would find some time to join them. Lately though, with late summer bringing the harvest, Sarah was otherwise engaged with chores. Anathema tried to conceal her disappointment and pay attention to the children’s elaborate games and rituals, offering feedback, but mostly encouragement. 

They’d taken to putting on shows at the edge of the woods, using two thick tree trunks as the sides of a proscenium. They would stumble their way through heavily adapted versions of King Arthur’s legends and Robin Hood, Pepper declaring all the while that she wanted to be a knight and not a princess or a damsel in distress. On this day, they’d goaded Anathema into filling the role of Maid Marion, little hands on her wrists pulling her through their unspoken blocking.

“No!” cried Brian, planting his hands on his hips in exasperation. “You don’t look scared enough, Ana. Make your eyes  _ really _ big.”

She was a bad actress, apparently.

“Like this?” she asked, opening her eyes as wide as they’d go.

“No, that’s too much,” said Adam, falling into his role as director like he’d been born for it. He demonstrated a facial expression for her and she endeavoured to mimic him until he shrugged and said, “I guess that’s alright.”

After another hour of the children growing increasingly frustrated with Anathema’s performance, the sun dipped lower in the sky, and she had to grudgingly acknowledge she’d better get back to the house, if she wanted to raise as few eyebrows as possible. She bid farewell to the children, who in spite of their earlier attitude seemed genuinely disappointed, and began her hike back through the trees.

Over the sound of her feet on fallen leaves and undergrowth of the forest floor, Anathema could hear someone calling out for her. She turned, and saw Sarah walking quickly towards her, book in hand, skirts held up with the other.

“Almost missed you. Here’s your book.” She thrust the thin volume towards Anathema, catching her breath. She made a vague gesture towards Anathema with her hand, then said, “Nice trousers. You make those yourself?”

Anathema laughed, holding the book to her chest. It was a collection of Emily Dickinson poems gifted to her by Aziraphale. It wasn’t new, he said it had been in his collection for some time, but he thought because Dickinson was a woman, and an American woman, that Anathema might feel some affinity with her. Much to her chagrin, he had been right. Anathema had devoured each and every poem, had whispered the words to herself in her room, had desperately wanted to share it. With Sarah, specifically.

“Did you like it?” asked Anathema with trepidation.

Sarah crossed her arms. “T’was alright. They don’t all rhyme. Some of them I liked and some of them I didn’t really understand if I’m being honest.” 

A pink flush rose in Sarah’s freckled cheeks. 

Anathema looked down at the book cover and smiled. “Me too, I think. But I like the way they sound.”

“There was one,” said Sarah suddenly, like in being unsure she had to get her thought out as soon as possible lest she shy away from it, “that I liked. Called  _ Resurrection _ , I think.”

Anathema startled. “I love that one!” She found the poem quickly, and began to recite her favourite verse.

“These fleshless lovers met,

A heaven in a gaze,

A heaven of heavens, the privilege

Of one another's eyes.”

When she finished, neither spoke for a moment. 

For the first time, Anathema let herself feel the weight of the words. The idea that the greatest reward could lay in the eyes of another.

Sarah’s eyes were very, very blue.

“A heaven in a gaze. That’s… it’s just a nice thing to think, isn’t it?” The woman looked over Anathema’s shoulder

Heat climbed up her neck and she clambered for some sort of response. “Ah, yes. It’s nice. Really pretty. Heaven in… in looking. I really should get back to the house. I’m glad you liked the poems.” Anathema turned, nearly fanned herself with the book in her hand. She wondered if it typically got this warm this late in the day in an English summer.

“Wait,” Sarah called, and Anathema froze. 

She was nervous, all of a sudden, which was strange. She wasn’t typically nervous around Sarah. Excited, gleeful occasionally, but not nervous. But perhaps this wasn’t nerves at all. There was no fear to it, just a sense of being in between one thing and the next, and not having any idea of what the next thing was. She didn’t know what she wanted the next thing to be, but without warning, from deep inside the recesses of her own mind, emerged the image of her fingers intertwined with Sarah’s. Tentatively, she looked back over her shoulder.

“I just wanted to say I do like the trousers. That’s very bold of you.” Sarah looked a bit stunned by her own admission, her very blue eyes wide and her lips parted in a muted surprise. Her lips were very, very pink.

“Um, thank you,” stammered Anathema. The sweat on his face made her glasses slide down her nose and she pushed them back up. She wanted to stay here in the woods with Sarah until the sun set. “I really should go.”

“Yeah,” said Sarah, sinking back into her usual cadence, “don’t want to upset the Lady of the house.” She turned, and walked back towards her farm.

Anathema changed in the stable after ensuring she was alone. As she inelegantly attempted to do up her own dress she thought about the night Aziraphale had given her the collection of poems. He had been very sweet, and as unassuming as he usually was. After she had read it she had thought that maybe she could do what her grandmother wanted.

Maybe, if it would be sweet gifts of books and trips to the city and leaving her to her own plans, she could become Mrs. Aziraphale Device. It wouldn’t be too grand a hardship, and she would fulfill the family’s legacy, which as the only child of the  _ real _ Devices was her spiritual right.

She’d come to know Aziraphale, and while any union between them wouldn’t be romantic love, might never be, perhaps it could be a warm and liveable _ like _ .

For days after the gift of the book she had brought herself to terms with this idea. She’d softened in her approach to Aziraphale, made a point of engaging him in conversation at dinner, which he delighted in. It had felt that maybe, maybe her grandmother was right.

Until today, this afternoon, when the idea curdled for her once more, turning her stomach and making her recoil.

Would Aziraphale allow her to stay friends with Sarah, she wondered. It had only been a few months of knowing one another, but Anathema didn’t know how she could be without her.

* * *

“Aziraphale?”

The Earl looked up from his desk to Agnes standing in the doorway of the library, dressed for the day. It was early for her. She’d never been an especially early riser, and he’d become accustomed to not laying eyes on her until lunchtime, after which she’d frequently leave until dinner, making the social rounds.

“Agnes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I won’t be here for luncheon,” she said, adjusting the sleeves of her coat. “I’ll be visiting the Fletchleys' in Hammondsly. I’ll be back for dinner. You won’t be needing Crowley, will you?”

Aziraphale’s skin prickled at the mention of the driver. “Will I be needing him?”

Agnes’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Are you planning on going anywhere, Cousin?”

“Oh, oh no. I’ll be right here.” He swallowed and touched the newspaper in front of him, feeling exposed. “Reading. Perhaps I’ll take a walk.”

“Good for you,” said Agnes in a way that wasn’t altogether kind. She lingered in the doorway. 

In his months living on the estate, Aziraphale had come to understand that Agnes was more than just calculating and dedicated. She was deeply perceptive. She knew all the names of the staff, could report on their moods and internal politics and machinations that affected their interpersonal dealings. She ran the house without anyone understanding the true extent of her power. Aziraphale was still coming to know it as well. What he had learned was that with the exception of their first meeting, Agnes never made requests or started serious discussions unprompted. She had a way of nudging someone else to begin proceedings.

The path of least resistance was simply to give her what she wanted.

“Is there something I can help you with, Agnes dear?” he asked her stately form.

“Now that you mention it, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you, should you have a moment.” She took a graceful stride into the room.

“Anything for you,” he said, folding up the paper. He meant it, though not in the way one usually offered the sentiment. It wasn’t that he disliked Agnes, it was just that the mere mention of her gave him a nervous stomach.

“I’d like to invite some dear friends of mine in from London, perhaps for a few days. In the autumn? October is such a lovely time here at Tadfield.”

“I’m sure that can be accommodated,” said Aziraphale, as if he had any real choice in the matter at all.

“Won’t be a large party. Three, perhaps four.”

“Of course. Eminently manageable.”

“I’m sure it must be terribly dreary for you here compared to life in the city. I thought perhaps some visitors might liven things up a little for you.” Agnes smiled tightly.

“Oh, the estate has kept me so busy, I’ve hardly noticed.” He had been relatively busy, yes, but in every quiet moment he ached for his former life. Crowded city streets and raucous parties in the evenings. The straightforward routine of his days on the estate meant he idly fixated on other things, like plotting out ways to rearrange the library (though not sticking to one plan long enough to set the staff to do it), and, to his deep shame, the driver.

At this juncture Aziraphale could draw an exact and detailed portrait of the back of Crowley’s neck, down to the last hair. He found himself attempting to engage in conversation with the driver at every opportunity, and Crowley was amenable, but he’d have to be. He didn’t have the luxury of brushing Aziraphale off.

Aziraphale should know better. In fact, he did know better. But each time Crowley’s eyes flashed in his direction a rather strong feeling took hold in his chest and he was powerless against his daydreams. He felt remarkably lucky that so many of their interactions took place without an audience. It saved him some embarrassment. Crowley must think him terribly strange, if he were generous.

“Well, all the same, it’ll be nice to have company. I’ll review some dates with Morningstar, see what times might be most appropriate for the visit.”

Aziraphale nodded, expecting her to bid her farewell, but she stayed in his presence, waiting.

“Is there something else, Agnes?”

“There is.” She tried to look as if she had just remembered this, as if she had not come down here for this specific reason. She swept into the library and gently closed the door behind her, took a seat on the end of the chaise, holding her cane to the side. “It’s about Morningstar.”

“Is something wrong with him?” Aziraphale had been under the impression that Morningstar was an exemplary leader, running the house nearly as much as Agnes did. The man was no nonsense yet cooly charming. His presence unnerved Aziraphale, and though he was careful to not let his facade crack, Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that Morningstar found him less than cut out for the role of Earl. It wouldn’t be an unfair assessment, Aziraphale had wryly thought on more than one occasion. Morningstar would likely be better suited himself, with his fine manners and aristocratic nose.

“You see, Cousin, he’s stressed, about the matter of your valet.”

“Ah, that old chestnut.” It seemed barely a week went by without Agnes raising the matter, always talking about how he should more embrace his role as Earl by accepting that that was just the way things were done. Morningstar had not been a factor in those discussions though.

Agnes’s face grew hard. “The staff are finding it difficult to keep up with things without one.”

“How is that?” asked Aziraphale. He had thought he’d done well enough keeping up with the general care of his clothing, though he would quietly admit that with all the changing he was expected to do it had grown to a larger job than he’d initially anticipated.

“The maids have to keep up your room, minding your wash basin, and so forth. It has Morningstar run ragged trying to run each day efficiently.” 

To not have a valet was, to Aziraphale up until this moment, a sort of principled stance, a clear indication that he was keeping a foot firmly planted in his former life. But the truth of the matter was that he was deeply inconveniencing the people who worked for him, the people whose loyalty would at some point be invaluable to him. Perhaps there were ulterior motives at play, but he wondered who it served to remain stubborn at this juncture.

“I see,” he murmured.

“And not to mention,” Agnes started, and she softened just a little, though she wasn’t warm, not by a mile, “that I believe that having a valet will be of great value to you. A valet can be a wealth of knowledge regarding what is expected of you. An excellent confidant.”

“I see,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Let Morningstar find someone for you,” Agnes said, reaching over to pat Aziraphale’s knee. “I think you will find it deeply beneficial.”

Aziraphale turned this offering over in his head. While he had some trepidation about acquiescing entirely, he couldn’t identify any motivation for this request beyond relieving the stress of the housemaids. If that were the case, then if he were deny the request any longer, he’d simply be a stubborn, out-of-touch mule. The funds were available for it, there was no question there. 

But perhaps there was a way to not hand over the reins entirely.

“Yes, I suppose it’s time. Morningstar can put out an advertisement, or ask for references. However he does these things.”

Agnes looked profoundly relieved. “I’m so happy to hear you come around on this question, Aziraphale. I’ll be sure to let Morningstar know.”

As she stood to go Aziraphale rose as well. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I can speak to Mr. Morningstar.”

Agnes hesitated, a nervous flicker of an expression rising in her face before slipping away.

“I think I’d like to see the applications. I’d like an input on the person who will be, ah, working so closely with me.”

She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Morningstar has excellent judgement about these things,” she said cooly.

Aziraphale swallowed the anxiety that her icy stare could inspire in him at a glance. “I have no doubt of it. All the same…” He let the sentence rest.

“Very well then,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your reading.” And with that, she swept out of the room, her voluminous skirt billowing behind her.

If Morningstar was displeased by the turn of events, he didn’t show it, merely nodding and confirming Aziraphale’s requests with a “Yes, Sir.” By the end of the week, the Earl was presented with four applications and he reviewed them at his desk in the late afternoon light, Morningstar posted some distance away.

“If you’ll allow me to say, my Lord, Daniel Robson has excellent references and a very good background. I’ve met him myself. He used to work for the Lumley’s. He’s an excellent valet.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Morningstar,” said Aziraphale distractedly, scanning the application of the man in question. The butler was right, Mr. Robson’s qualifications were unquestionably strong, but something made him pause before simply going with Morningstar’s preference.

At the bottom of the short pile, he pulled out another application. The man had one previous position. He was a local, Tadfield born and bred. The one reference included did not praise his skills as a valet, so much as it referenced his gentle nature, his valued presence. Holding out the application to Morningstar, Aziraphale asked, “do you know this young man?”

Morningstar took the application in elegant hands, sniffed in a way Aziraphale thought rather theatric. “No, Sir. I don’t, though I understand he did some work here in the gardens in his youth. If you’ll pardon me saying, I don’t know he’s quite the right fit for a man of your standing.”

“You know,” said Aziraphale, taking the application back and looking at it one more time. “I think I’d like to meet him.”

“Sir?” Aziraphale did not look up, but could imagine very clearly the look of guarded confusion on the butler’s long face.

“Unconventional perhaps, but you’ll have him in, won’t you?”

The butler didn’t speak immediately, and Aziraphale chose to take control of the moment, rather than let it sit any longer.

“That will be all, Mr. Morningstar. Do let me know when you have the young man come by.”

As Morningstar left the room, taking the applications with him, Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling like, for the very first time, an Earl.

It was only a few days after that, that the applicant was presented to him in the great hall of Tadfield Manor. Morningstar stood with the man who would be valet, looking sidelong at him. The man was tall and lanky and Aziraphale could tell that even in the finest uniform, there would always be something entirely unsophisticated about him. When he laid eyes on Aziraphale for the first time, a nervous and crooked smile played on his lips. 

“M’lord,” he said, extending his hand, then on second thought retracting it.

“Hello there,” said Aziraphale, saving the man by extending his own pale palm. With trepidation, the man accepted. “I understand you’re Mr. Pulsifer.”

“Ah, yes Sir. Newton Pulsifer. Or Newt. Pulsifer. Pulsifer when I’m working.” Newton Pulsifer went pink in the cheeks, and briefly closed his eyes as if doing so would shield him from the embarrassment.

“And you’ve worked as a valet?” Aziraphale endeavoured to keep the conversation moving.

Newton’s eyes reopened and he swallowed. “Yes Sir. For Lord Stanley. A smaller house, not one quite as grand as this.”

“And what of Lord Stanley? I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”

“He recently passed on, Sir. God rest his soul.” Newton dropped his head.

“Lord Stanley was in his 90th year, my Lord,” offered Morningstar. “So Mr. Pulsifer’s duties were quite different than what would be expected of him here at Tadfield Manor.”

Morningstar wasn’t happy. He wasn’t a terribly expressive man, at least not while he was working, but Aziraphale could see his jaw clench, the heat simmering in his eyes.

“Of course,” Aziraphale started. “But I would bet that it provided you with an excellent foundation for work in an environment such as this. Wouldn’t you think, Mr. Pulsifer?”

Newton startled at being asked a question. “Er, ah, yes. Yes Sir.” 

“Well then, that’s all I need to hear. I’ll allow you and Mr. Morningstar to work out the particulars of your position. I look forward to having you here.”

Newton looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He cleared his throat. “I know I have a lot to learn, my Lord, but-”

“That’s all right,” said Aziraphale, interrupting. “So do I.”

* * *

That the Earl had seen to choosing his own valet, explicitly ignoring the advice of the butler, had caused a stir downstairs. To hear Morningstar talk of it, it was as if his Lordship had seen to wear nightclothes in front of the King. Crowley could see the butler try to restrain himself, to maintain that storied composure of which he was so proud, but it was clear he was devastated to see that the Earl could not be as easily manipulated as he had so clearly thought.

Crowley knew that what they wanted - Morningstar and Beelzebub and, he suspected, Lady Tadfield - was nothing less than a spy following Lord Tadfield around. Someone who would take detailed notes and report them back in full. Instead, they’d gotten a bumbling lad from the village who had already broken the iron twice and made an enemy of at least one housemaid for being clueless in the face of her unsophisticated flirtations. Crowley liked Newton Pulsifer very much.

He was to be called Pulsifer, in the way valets were always called by their last names, but in spite of his height he smacked of youth, and no one in the downstairs could bring themselves to do it. So it was Newton, or Newt if one was feeling familiar.

One of the primary reasons Crowley liked Newt was because he kept his mouth shut regarding the Earl. He would reveal nothing else other than the man was “kind and respectful.”

_ Good _ , Crowley thought, watching Newt reject inquiries into the Earl’s personality and habits. Of course Crowley would’ve liked to know the Earl’s coming and goings, his opinion on this or that, but not for the purposes of scheming, or getting a leg up. He just wanted to know. But this was better, overall. The less he knew, the better.

In the morning he’d driven Lady Tadfield to the train station to go to London. It wasn’t typical for those that lived in the country to go to the city in this sort of weather. Usually it was the time of year when Londoners escaped in the other direction, but Crowley resolved not to waste energy wondering about it.

The fact was that when Lady Tadfield left the house the entire mood lightened, everyone felt just a little more secure in their positions. The Earl wasn’t one for discipline or threats of dismissal, and Lady Anathema seemed to have her own ongoing conspiracies to attend to, and left staff well enough alone for the most part.

So his dropping Lady Tadfield off was accompanied by a thrill and a release, all in one. He could breathe a little easier. They all could.

He spent the next afternoon wandering the orchard. The pickers had been through about half of it, taking fruit off of heavy boughs and bringing it back to the house. For the next few weeks the dining room table would be laden with plums in syrup and apple tarts. Dagon and her assistants would spend every spare moment canning and bottling for the winter. Then some of the spoils would go out to the village, but he didn’t know much about that. That was Dowling business.

This late in the summer the creeping evening burned off the afternoon heat, leaving him almost chilled in his shirtsleeves, but not quite. It was perfect weather, perfect light. The lush green of the trees was startling, the fruit that had not yet been picked a breathtaking shock of colour. 

He sauntered over to an apple tree, and with a brief look over his shoulder, pocketed two yellow and red apples from a branch that dipped low to the ground with the weight of the fruit. Then he meandered out to the plum trees that had not yet had the once over.

The plums were the deepest reddish purple, swollen in their ripeness. Crowley could feel the give under his finger tips. Like the apples, he took two in hand.

With his bounty, he made a beeline to the folly.

Morningstar had told him once that the folly had been installed by the husband of Lady Tadfield, shortly after their marriage. An attempt at a miniature parthenon, far at the edge of the estate grounds. The endeavour hadn’t really ever gotten off the ground, and it only ever looked like Greek ruins, or what Crowley imagined Greek ruins to look like. A couple of half finished exterior walls in white stone, a few lonely columns.

What it lacked in the dignity it meant to inspire, it made up for in solitude. More than one downstairs couple had paired off here, far from the prying eyes of the house. But Crowley knew that on this evening all the staff were accounted for at the Manor, so there would be no one there but him. 

He’d go out on warm summer nights and watch the migration of the stars across the sky, the phases of the moon. He could enjoy what small delicacies he could get his hands on there without interruption or reprobation from someone who outranked him.

He could already imagine the tart sweetness of the plum on his tongue, the sensation of his teeth breaking the tight skin of the apple.

Clutching the fruit in his hands as he walked around the wall, he made to toss a plum in the air and catch it, just because he could, just because no one was watching. Except, someone was.

Crowley nearly dropped the plums to the ground. On the step where he usually sat alone sat the Earl, eyes wide with surprise.

“Ah,” Crowley choked, the words not coming to him at the speed they absolutely needed to. “I, uh-”

“I’ve startled you, Crowley, I’m so sorry.” The Earl stood, as if he were the servant, as if Crowley were the Lord. His blue eyes drifted to the fruit in Crowley’s hand.

Immediately he tucked his hands behind his back, which was a roundly stupid gesture, as the Earl had already seen the fruit, and his hiding it made it look like he’d done something he wasn’t supposed to, which of course he  _ had _ . Crowley swallowed thickly, searching desperately for something, anything to say that wouldn’t land him in a heap of trouble. “Didn’t know you’d be out here.”

That absolutely wasn’t it. He wanted to fling himself down the embankment.

“A recent discovery on my part,” said the Earl, small smile playing at the corner of his lips, gesturing vaguely to the half-finished structure behind him. “A less recent one on yours, perhaps.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Right.”

The Earl’s hands came up in front of him, and twisted in the air nervously. He opened his mouth to speak, seemingly lost his nerve, then tried again. “The fruit. I don’t mind.”

Crowley tipped his head back, unsure if he was relieved or scared of what was coming next.

“I understand it’s not strictly allowed, but, I won’t be giving you a tongue lashing over it. I’ll leave that business to Morningstar. Not that I’d tell him, that’s not what I meant.”

Crowley wished desperately that he’d say exactly what it was he  _ did _ mean.

“It only seems fair that you should have some, given you’ve been out with them harvesting it. I’m not bothered, is what I’m saying.” The Earl settled back on his heels and exhaled, also appearing to be grateful he’d gotten to his point. “I’m not bothered in the slightest.”

With a laboured breath Crowley lowered his shoulders, dropped his hands from where they were hiding behind his back. “Ah, thanks. Thank you.”

“No need of that,” said the Earl shyly. 

He settled back down on the edge of the platform where he’d been sitting before, then looked up at Crowley. “You should sit. Don’t stand on my account. I’ll leave shortly. It’s just so lovely out here and I wanted a few more minutes. But please, sit.”

That seemed a bad idea. It was one thing to sit in front of the man in the car, his eyes on the road and his attention on driving. But here in seclusion, next to him, as an equal - it was something else altogether. Just the idea of it was fantasy fodder. The first scene in a dream he’d wake up from sweating.

If it were months earlier he wouldn’t have been able to say no. Now, Crowley had come to know the man well enough that he knew if he were to decline there’d be no consequence. 

But, he didn’t want to say no. 

And so he sat, a few feet away. Not close, but closer than any member of staff would’ve ever had permission to with anyone else upstairs. He glanced over to the Earl, who was looking out over the vista.

“I must say, Crowley, it’s so much busier out here than I anticipated.” The Earl chuckled at himself wryly. “I thought moving out to the country would be more, oh, I don’t know, relaxed.”

Crowley rubbed one of the apples on his trousers. “Always lots of work to be done out in the country,” he said.

“I’ve learned that, yes. And for you, all of you downstairs. You never sleep, as far as I can tell.”

“Oh we do,” said Crowley. “We just do it standing up.” He smiled as the Earl laughed and meant to take a bite of the apple, when he stopped. Before he could question the impulse he extended it to the man who sat beside him, red skin bright in the golden sun.

“Oh,” said the Earl, and Crowley couldn’t look up at his face, feeling any expression that to be found there might turn him inside out. “Thank you so much.”

He took the apple gingerly, held it out in front of him. 

Feeling bolder now, Crowley extended a plum as well. That was half his treasure gone, but that it brought their hands so close made it worth the loss.

“I do like plums,” said the Earl quietly. “Look at that colour.” He turned the fruit over in his hand then brought it to his nose, smelled it.

Crowley watched him, both the men engrossed in their individual observations. Then the Earl brought it to his lips, and took a bite. The noise the Earl made felt like a miracle and Crowley wanted to get on his knees for it. His blue eyes had fluttered shut and he turned his face up to the sun. 

“Goodness,” he said, “isn’t that marvelous.” 

Then there was plum juice running down from the corner of his mouth and he caught it with the back of his hand, narrowly avoiding his sleeve.

Again, without thinking, a habit which was bound to be a problem sooner than later, Crowley reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a handkerchief, handing it to Lord Tadfield like he had the apple and the plum.

The Earl accepted it gratefully, primly pressing it to his mouth. “Thank you, Crowley. I do have one of these myself but I’m not as quick as you.” He looked down at the white square of cotton in his hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very resourceful?”

Crowley had to think for a moment, restart his train of thought. “No, not in so many words.”

“Have you ever been to the city? London?” The Earl turned to him, Crowley’s handkerchief folded into one hand, the other extended out and holding the plum away from him, to avoid the juice dripping onto his clothes.

“No,” responded Crowley.

The Earl gave a thoughtful nod. “I think you’d do well there.”

“What makes you say that?” Each second in the Earl’s company made him bolder, and he noted that his response didn’t make the other man flinch.

“Quick. Resourceful. Just as I said. Adaptable, too.” 

The Earl turned to him, studied him, and for the first time Crowley met his gaze head on and held it. His heart, acting all on it’s own, quickened its pace.

“Yes,” the Earl said, breaking the connection and looking back out to the fields in the distance. “I think you’d do very well indeed.”

“Do you miss it?” Crowley asked, watching the Earl take in the horizon. “London.”

“Oh,” he started, smiling softly. “Every day. But I’m told I’m needed here, and so. I’m here. It’s not bad.”

“Bit damp,” Crowley said, looking to the plum in his hand. “Not lately but…”

The Earl laughed, and looked to Crowley. In Lord Tadfield’s blue eyes was a glint of delighted surprise. Crowley could take more of that, thank you. He could take that image to bed with him. “This whole island is a bit damp in my experience, I’m sorry to say.”

Crowley leaned back, propped himself up on his elbow. “You’d think if the King loved his loyal subjects he’d do us all the favour of setting up shop a few hundred miles to the south.”

The Earl hummed in pleasure at this idea. “Doesn’t that sound lovely. Just imagine, London not on the Thames but the banks of the Mediterranean.”

Crowley tried to imagine, but he had barely any idea of what the Mediterranean would look like. “Sounds nice,” he said, instead watching the sun cast shadows through the golden curls of the man seated next to him.

“I went to the south of France once. It’s… really very lovely.”

When the Earl turned to him next his eyes drifted down Crowley’s form and the driver suddenly felt he had crossed a line. Lounging about in front of the Lord - bad, bad form. He shot back up, trying to unfurl his spine.

For a brief moment there was something unsettled between them, but the Earl was determined to lead them away from it, and for that Crowley was deeply grateful. 

“I don’t suppose your skills driving that car are transferable to sea, a sailing boat perhaps?” he asked, lips pursed. “Once winter sets in we could all just sail away from here. Move on to warmer climes.”

“I could give it a shot,” said Crowley. “You know how to swim, don’t you?”

The Earl laughed, and it turned Crowley over, made his heart do miraculous and painful things.  _ We could all just sail away from here. _

That night Crowley dreamed of the ocean, which he had seen only once. Of water lapping around his ankles, and of a sun who took the form of a man, and who pulled him deeper still.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me and tell me how historically inaccurate this is on tumblr, [here](https://bestoftheseekwill.tumblr.com/).


End file.
